II 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Thornton  &  Son 

Booksellers, 
1     II   The   Broad, 
Oxford. 


^be  Cantciburi?  ipoet^. 

Edited  by  William  Sharp. 


POEMS    OF    OWEN    MEREDITH    (THE 
EARL  OF  LYTTON). 


FOR  FULL   LIST  OF   THE  VOLUMES   IN   THIS  SERIES, 
SEE   CATALOGUE   AT   END   OF   BOOK. 


POEMS     OF    OWEN     MERE- 
DITH   (THE    EARlCoB^''^ 
LYTTON).     SELECTED,   WITH 
AN     INTRODUCTION,     BY     M. 
BETHAM-EDWARDS. 


AUTHORISED   EDITION. 


"  Und  so  do  ist  der  Dichter  zugleich  Lehrer,  Wahrsager, 
Freund  derGotterund  der  Menschen."— Wilhelm  Meister. 


LONDON : 

WALTER   SCOTT,    LIMITED, 

24  WARWICK  LANE. 

NEW  YORK :  3  EAST  FOURTEENTH  STREET, 


^90 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

From  "  Clytemnestr  v"— 

Clytemnestra   1 

From  "The  Wanderer"— 

The  Magic  Land S 

Desire 9 

Fatality 10 

Thoughts  at  Sunrise  —  12 

Thoughts  at  Sunset  ....  12 

To  Irene 15 

An  Evening  in  Tuscany  IC 

The  Storm 19 

Song    22 

The  First  Farewell    ....  23 

Forbearance 23 

To   a  Woman;    or,  the 

Last  "Wish 24 

A  Love-Letter 24 

The  Message 31 

Sea-Side  Elegiacs  47 

The  Shore 49 


PAGE 

The  Vampire    51 

A  Remonstrance    52 

Meeting  Again    56 

Earth's  Havings     57 

The  Last  Farewell 59 

The  Last  Assurance CI 

The  Deserted  Palace     . .  61 

The  Buried  Heart 62 

How  these    Songs  were 

made  64 

The  Portrait 65 

Going  back  again 70 

Two  out  of  the  Crowd  . .  71 

Bluebeard 76 

Fatima    78 

Resurrection    78 

The  Chess-board    83 

Fata  Morgana 84 

Consolation 88 

A  Footstep    89 

Requiescat    90 

Madame  la  Marquise   . .  91 


943SS3 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Midges   94 

Good-night  in  the  Torch    97 
Spring  and  Winter 106 

SOXG  FROM   "LUCILE"— 

The  Bird  of  Paradise    . .  109 
From  "Songs  of    Ser- 

VIA  "— 

The  Stag  and  the  Vila. .  113 

Love  and  Sleep    114 

Tittle  Tattle 116 

Love  confers  Nobility  . .  117 

Neglected  Flowers 117 

From  "Chronicles  and 
Characters  "— 

Genseric    118 

The  Dauphin    119 

Missry    123 

The  Apple  of  Life 132 

Last  Words 142 

From  "  Orval  "— 
Epithalamium  148 

From    "  Miscellaneous 
Poems "— 

Ode  to  a  Starling   150 

The  Lay  of  the  Cock ....  153 

Little  Ella 160 

Droppings 163 

Know  Thyself 164 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom  165 
Side  by  Side 165 


PAGE 

Divided  Lives  171 

Sacrifice 172 

Duty    173 

From  "Fables  in  SOiNg"— 

Introductory    174 

The  Thistle 176 

Possession 186 

Prematurity 187 

The  Far  and  the  Near..  188 
The  Blue  Mountains;  or, 

The  Far 189 

A  Wheat-Stalk ;  or,  The 

Near 196 

Lost  Treasures    200 

Only  a  Shaving    204 

Questionable      Consola- 
tion    208 

From  "Glenaveril"— 

Part  L,  Canto  II 212 

Human  Destinies   215 

The  Family  Board 217 

From  "After  Para- 
dise"— 

North  and  South    219 

Athens    220 

Cintra 220 

Sorrento  Revisited 228 

A  Sigh    228 

Necromancy 229 

Strangers  229 

Uriel    238 

Transformations 245 


INTRODUCTION, 


As  the  nosegay  indicates  the  hixuriance  of  the 
garden,  so  should  a  selection  epitomise  the  genius 
of  the  poet.  Old  acquaintances  are  reminded  of 
many  a  familiar  flower,  strangers  are  enticed  to 
enter.  If  the  first  may  miss  more  than  one 
especial  favourite,  they  will  still  feel  grateful  for 
so  much  beauty  presented  to  them  in  small  com- 
pass ;  if  the  last  cannot  roam  over  the  entire 
domain,  they  are  compensated  by  the  gift  of 
lily  or  rose.  "The  poet,"  writes  the  all-sympa- 
thetic Goethe,  "is  alike  teacher,  seer,  the  friend 
of  gods  and  men."  A  more  modest  yet  gracious 
and  self-rewarding  function  is  that  of  the  poet's 
interpreter,  of  one  who  culls  choicest  blossoms 
of  poesy  for  others,  pointing  to  the  pleasance 
wherein  they  grow. 

It  is  no  easy  task  to  review  in  a  few  short 
pages  the  poetic  career  of  Owen  Meredith  and 
the  Earl  of  Lytton,  one  and  the  same  person,  yet 
characterised  by  work  so  widely  divergent  in  scope 
and  treatment  as  to  suggest  two  individualities. 
No  less  might  doubtless  be  averred  of  many 
another  poet,  but   authorship  and  personality  in 


viii  INTRODUCTION, 

their  case  being  united  from  the  onset,  such 
contrasts  are  less  striking.  With  a  constancy, 
ahnost  universally  witnessed,  a  constancy  often 
illogical  enough,  the  vast  majority  of  readers  prefer 
the  poet's  earlier  to  his  later  utterances — Owen 
Meredith  to  the  Earl  of  Lytton.  Such  is  the 
verdict  passed  on  most  writers  winning  the  laurel 
crown  in  early  youth.  Perhaps  the  world  is  too 
lazy,  too  pre-occupied,  to  bestow  the  same 
amount  of  thought  and  sympathy  upon  their 
maturer  achievements  ;  it  is  so  difficult,  more- 
over, to  believe  that  the  same  wand  can  enchant 
us  twice  over!  But  may  there  not  in  this  case 
be  another  reason  ?  When  a  writer  has  pleased, 
his  readers,  for  the  most  part,  wish  to  go  on 
being  pleased  in  the  same  way ;  no  matter  how 
often  he  repeats  himself,  if  the  repetition  is  up  to 
his  standard,  nothing  more  is  expected  or  asked  of 
him.  When  every  new  work  is  a  wholly  new 
departure,  the  striking  out  of  a  new  path,  then  he  is 
sure,  at  least  for  a  time,  to  forfeit  popularity ;  he  is 
under  the  necessity  of  creating  his  public.  Thus 
it  has  come  about  that  the  poetic  achievements 
of  Lord  Lytton's  maturer  years  still  await  the 
fame  they  deserve.  In  the  words  of  an  able 
critic,  "  The  first  work  in  which  Lord  Lytton's 
genius  did  itself  full  justice  was  Glenaveril^  pub- 
lished in  1885.  By  this  time  Owen  Meredith, 
the  poet,  had  well-nigh  been  forgotten  in  the  Earl 
of  Lytton,  diplomatist  and  statesman.  The  great 
originality  of  this  work,  its  wealth  of  ideas  and 
creation  of  character,  obtained  no  adequate  recog- 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

nition."*  My  endeavour  has  been  to  make  the 
accompanying  selection  a  representative  one,  re- 
vealing the  various  aspects  of  a  many-sided  genius, 
the  subtle  and  the  sportive,  the  picturesque  and  the 
reflective,  the  dramatic  and  psychological.  It  has 
also  been  my  plan  to  avoid  fragmentariness,  and 
give,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  only  such  pieces 
as  are  complete  in  themselves.  This  arrangement 
has  necessarily  led  to  the  exclusion  of  descriptive 
passages  of  great  brilliance  and  beauty,  but  which, 
gems  removed  from  their  setting,  were  more  suited 
to  a  volume  of  mere  extracts. 

Middle-aged  lovers  of  poetry  well  remember  the 
pleasure  with  which  they  hailed  the  appearance 
of  Clytemnestra.  Seldom  indeed  has  a  first 
attempt  secured  its  youthful  author  such  poetic 
rank.  This  noble  dramatic  poem,  like  the 
"Iphigenie  auf  Tauris"  of  Goethe,  is  no  mere 
echo  of  the  old  Greek  drama,  but  an  interpreta- 
tion in  the  modern  spirit  of  one  of  its  most 
striking  episodes.  In  the  "Agamemnon,"  writes 
Dr.  Donaldson,  the  queen's  jealousy  of  Cassan- 
dra and  guilty  connection  with  the  worthless 
^gisthus,  who  does  not  make  his  appearance 
till  towards  the  end,  are  scarcely  touched  upon 
as  motives,  and  remain  in  the  background.t  In 
Owen  Meredith's  Clytemnestra^  her  vacillating 
lover,  like  Macbeth,  eager  to  reap  the  fruits  of 
crime,  but  shrinking  from  the  crime  itself,  is  a 
prominent  figure,  the  protagonist  of  the  play,  the 

*  See  the  Scots"  Review,  1887. 

t  Donaldson's  Theatre  of  the  Oreeks. 

a-\ 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

faithless  wife  adducing  reprisals  for  her  slaughtered 
child  in  order  to  excuse  the  murder  of  her  husband. 

"  Whate'er  I  am,  be  sure  that  I  am  that 
Which  thou  hast  made  nie, — nothing  of  myself," 

is  her  passionate  outpouring  to  vEgisthus,  calling 
forth  the  fervid  reply — 

"Oh,  you  are  a  Queen, 
That  should  have  none  but  gods  to  rule  over  1 
Make  me  immortal  with  one  costly  kiss  ! " 

Readers  will  do  well  to  turn  from  the  extract 
here  given,  a  piece  of  description  complete  in 
itself,  to  the  account  of  the  same  event  in  the 
old  drama. 

The  ditference  between  the  ancient  and  modern 
spirit  is  strikingly  brought  out.  In  ^schylus  the 
sacrifice  at  Aulis  reads  like  a  page  out  of  the 
"  Prometheus  Bound."  All  is  rugged,  stern,  awe- 
inspiring.  The  poet  of  our  own  day  softens  the 
picture,  a  magic  spell  overtakes  us  as  we  read, 
the  harmony  of  the  numbers  takes  from  the  horror 
of  the  scene  described. 

Touching  too,  and  serving  as  a  relief  to  the 
sombre  story,  is  the  scene  between  the  young 
Orestes  and  his  sister  Electra,  the  afiectionate, 
neglected  daughter  of  the  murderess  Queen,  who, 
wedded  to  a  herdsman,  is  the  heroine  of  one  of 
Euripides'  charming  plays. 

With  Clytenmesira  appeared  "  The  Earl's 
Return,"    abounding    in    weird    description,    and 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

also  some  shorter  pieces,  several  of  \vhich,  old 
favourites,  are  here  reproduced. 

Owen  Meredith's  next  volume.  The  Wanderer^ 
was  received  even  more  warmly  than  the  first, 
and  here  the  task  of  selection  has  been 
comparatively  easy.  "The  Portrait,"  "The 
Marquise,"  "  Midges,"  "  A  Love  -  Letter,"  are 
among  the  poet's  brilliant  triumphs  of  this  period. 
"To  a  Woman,"  in  later  volumes  called  "The 
Last  Wish,"  is  an  entire  love-story  and  life-story 
in  four  lines. 

A  few  years  later  appeared  Lucile.  The  author, 
in  his  touching  dedication  to  his  illustrious  father, 
spoke  of  the  doubt  and  discouragement  with  which 
he  gave  his  new  poem  to  the  world,  following  a 
path  in  which  he  could  discover  no  footprints 
before  him  either  to  guide  or  warn. 

In  reality  Lucile^  although  an  experiment,  pos- 
sessed all  the  elements  of  popularity.  This  novel 
in  verse  appealed  alike  to  young  and  old,  to  the 
practical  and  romantic.  It  contained  deep  human 
interest,  a  note  of  lofty  moral  aspiration,  abundant 
knowledge  of  the  world,  a  moving  story  having  a 
picturesque  background;  lastly,  the  narrative  was 
in  flowing,  graceful  verse.  The  local  colour  of 
the  early  portion,  that  part  of  the  scene  laid  in  the 
Pyrenees,  is  especially  attractive ;  as  we  read,  we 
breathe  the  pine-scented  air  of  the  forest,  gaze 
upon  the  deep  gorges  and  flower-besprinkled 
dells,  hear  the  thunder  of  the  storm  amid  the 
mountains.  Lucile  is  said  to  be  the  most  popular 
narrative  poem  in  America,  but  has  not  yet  been 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

given  to  the  English  public  in  a  form  within  reach 
of  all,  A  cheap  edition  of  this  charming  story 
would  be  a  public  boon. 

In  the  following  year  (1861)  the  Songs  of  Servia 
were  given  to  the  world.  "  What  they  are,"  wrote 
the  poet  in  his  Introduction,  "let  the  reader 
decide.  What  they  are  meant  to  be  is  nothing 
more  than  a  rude  medium  through  which  to 
convey  to  other  minds  something  of  the  impres- 
sion made  upon  my  own  by  the  poetry  of  a  people 
among  whom  literature  is  yet  unborn  ;  who  in  the 
nineteenth  century  retain,  with  the  traditions, 
many  also  of  the  habits  and  customs  of  a  bar- 
barous age ;  and  whose  social  life  represents  the 
struggle  of  centuries  to  maintain  under  the  code 
of  Mahomet,  the  creed  of  Christ. 

"  It  is  indeed  this  strange  intermixture  of  Ma- 
hometan with  Christian  associations  which  gives  to 
the  poetry  of  the  Servs  its  most  striking  charac- 
teristics. It  is  the  sword  of  a  Crusader  in  the 
scabbard  of  a  Turk.  That,  however,  which  mainly 
distinguishes  this  from  all  other  contemporary 
poetry  with  which  I  am  acquainted  is  the  evidence 
borne  on  the  face  of  it,  of  an  origin,  not  in  the 
heads  of  a  few  but  in  the  hearts  of  all.  This  is 
a  Poetry  of  which  the  People  is  the  Poet !  " 

Awaiting  a  popular  re-issue  of  the  Serbski 
Pesme,  a.\l  familiar  with  these  "native  wood-notes 
wild"  will  welcome  old  favourites  here,  whilst 
readers  now  introduced  to  them  for  the  first  time 
will  enjoy  a  poetic  treat  Artless,  joyous,  or 
plaintive  by  turns,   we  are  reminded  as  we  read 


INTRODUCTION,  xiii 

of  the  national  Slavonic  music,  especially  of  the 
songs  of  the  Steppes,  as  lately  rendered  in  Paris 
by  a  band  of  Russian  vocalists.  Just  as  the  physi- 
ognomies of  the  singers  were  strikingly  contrasted 
with  their  voices,  the  men  having  many  of  them 
wild  half-Tartar  faces,  whilst  their  singing  was 
of  the  sweetest,  tenderest,  most  pathetic  imagin- 
able; so  in  the  Songs  of  Servia^  the  naivetd,  even 
ruggedness  of  the  measures,  are  allied  with  airiest 
fancy  and  melancholy  grace.  In  both,  too,  is 
conspicuous  a  certain  espilglerie^  a  roguishness, 
in  keeping  with  themes  so  primitive,  an  art  so 
untutored. 

From  the  succeeding  volumes.  Chronicles  and 
Characters  (1869),  selection  has  necessarily  been 
limited.  The  length  of  these  poems,  mostly 
narrative,  has  shut  them  out  of  a  volume  limited 
in  size,  yet  nowhere  else  are  the  author's  wealth 
of  fancy  and  mastery  of  versification  more  apparent. 
Lord  Lytton  revels  in  rhyme,  and  has  made  some 
developments  of  it  peculiarly  his  own,  a  point 
returned  to  later  on.  These  poems  are  all  rhymed, 
and  abound  in  striking  description.  Take,  for 
example,  the  passage  entitled  "A  Blind  Man  sees 
far,"  from  the  "  Siege  of  Constantinople."  Alone 
sits  the  sightless  old  Doge  Dandolo,  and  beholds 
with  his  mental  vision  the  triumph  of  Venice  in 
the  East.     He 

" saw,  as  in  a  trance, 

Constructed  out  of  golden  circumstance, 
The  steadfast  image  of  a  far-oflf  thing 
Glorious  and  full  of  wonder.  ,  .  . 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

Clear  upspring 
Into  the  deep  blue  sky  the  golden  spii-es 
That  top  the  milk-white  towers,  like  windless  fires  ; 
O'er  gardened  slopes,  slant  shafts  of  plumy  palm 
Lean  seaward  from  hot  hillsides  breathing  balm. 
Green,  azure,  and  vermilion,  fret  with  gold. 
Blaze  the  domed  roofs  in  many  a  globed  fold 
Of  splendour,  set  with  silver  studs  and  discs  : 
And,  underneath,  the  solemn  obelisks 
And  sombre  cypress  stripe  with  blackest  shade 
Sea  terraces,  by  summer  overlaid 
With  such  a  lavish  sunlight  as  o'erflows 
And  drops  between  thick  clusters  of  wild  rose 
And  clambering  sparweed,  down  the  sleepy  walls 
To  the  broad  base  of  granite  pedestals 
That  prop  the  grated  ramparts,  round  about 
The  wave-girt  city  ;  whence  flow  in  and  out 
The  wealth  and  wonder  of  the  Orient  World  : 
And,  high  o'er  all  this  populous  pomp,  unfurled 
In  the  sublime  dominions  of  the  sun. 
And  fanned  by  floating  Bosphorus  breezes  won. 
To  waft  to  Venice  each  triumphant  bark 
The  winged  and  warrior  Lion  of  St.  Mark  ? " 

Or  take  this  description  of  Cyprus  from  "  Caterina 
Cornaro  "  : — 

"  In  Cyprus,  where  'live  Summer  never  dies, 
Love's  native  land  is.     There  the  seas,  the  skies, 
Are  blue  and  lucid  as  the  looks,  the  air 
Fervid  and  fragrant  as  the  breath  and  hair, 
Of  Beauty's  Queen  ;  whose  gracious  godship  dwells 
In  that  dear  island  of  delicious  dells, 
Mid  lavish  lights  and  languid  glooms  divine. 
There  doth  she  her  sly,  dainty  sceptre  twine 
With  seabank  myrtle  spray  and  roses  sweet 
And  full  as,  when  the  lips  of  lovers  meet 


INTRODUCTION.  xv 

The  first  strange  time,  their  sudden  kisses  be 
There  doth  she  lightly  reign  ;  there  holdeth  she 
Her  laughing  court  in  gleam  of  lemon  groves, 
The  wanton  mother  of  unnumbered  Loves  !  " 

Goethe  says  somewhere  that  painters  should  live 
in  palaces.  Doubtless  Lord  Lytton's  poems  owe 
much  of  their  rich  colouring  to  the  writer's 
early  acquaintance  with  some  of  the  loveliest  and 
most  favoured  regions  under  the  sun.  Owen 
Meredith  is  indebted  to  the  diplomatist,  the 
ambassador.  Readers,  compelled  to  do  most  of 
their  travels  by  proxy,  may  here  transport  them- 
selves to  those  romantic  lands,  which  by  turns 
became  his  home. 

The  Chronicles  a?id  Characierisiics  must  not, 
however,  be  regarded  entirely  from  the  objective 
point  of  view.  In  some  of  these  pieces  reflecting 
various  phases  of  life,  thought,  and  history,  the 
framework  is  made  subsidiary  to  the  idea,  the 
background  to  the  story.  A  deep,  passionate  note 
of  sympathy  with  suffering  humanity,  is  struck  in 
"Misery"  and  "The  Dauphin";  subtle  psycho- 
logical problems  are  worked  out  in  "  The  Botanist's 
Grave,"  with  its  moral — 

"  The  world,  perchance  after  all,  knows  already  enough, 
what  is  wanted 
la  not  to  know  more  but  how  to  imagine,  the  much  that 
it  knows." 

07-val^  or  the  Fool  of  Time^  appeared  in  1869. 
Suggested  by  an  analysis  of  a  Polish  poem,  the 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

work  is  quite  unlike  any  other  by  the  author. 
Orval,  in  turn,  suggests  Faust,  Manfred,  and 
Cyprian  of  Calderon's  famous  play.  The  key-note 
to  his  story  or  to  theirs  is — 

'*  We  are  fooled 
By  time  and  plagued  -svith  granted  prayers.    Henceforth, 
Let  man,  whose  realm  is  the  Actual,  leave 
To  the  great  God,  what  by  the  greedy  grasp 
Of  his  impatient  passion,  man  destroys, 
— ♦  The  Ideal  Beauty  ! '" 

The  dialogue  is  in  blank  verse,  and  the  treatment 
of  a  weird,  complex  story,  highly  imaginative  and 
poetic. 

Fables  in  So?ig  belong  to  1874.  It  is  not  easy  to 
characterise  these  two  volumes,  containing  poems 
so  directly  opposed  to  each  other  alike  in  form  and 
spirit.  Lord  Lytton  has  made  fable-land  his  own, 
maybe  it  is  the  poetic  region  in  which  he  most  de- 
lights. Here  we  find  his  charming  testimony  to 
^sop  and  the  fanciful  but  touching  description  of 
"The  Forest  whose  name  is  Fable,"  hidden  from 
the  busy,  unreflective  crowd,  but  accessible  to 
artless,  childlike  natures. 

The  stories  which  may  be  strictly  classified  as 
fable,  deal  not  only  with  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  the  animal  world,  but  of  the  supposititious 
sayings  and  doings  of  inanimate  nature.  Every 
object,  natural  or  artificial,  is  made  a  sentient, 
observant  entity,  and  thus  endowed,  is  able  to 
afford  alternate  warning,  amusement,  or  instruc- 
tion.    Many  of  the  parables  abound  in  humorous 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

touches.  It  is  a  curious  region  to  which  we 
are  transported,  a  region  wherein  men  and 
women  hold  only  the  secondary  place,  or  perhaps 
do  not  so  much  as  exist,  whilst  even  nature  is 
sometimes  kept  in  the  background  or  banished 
altogether.  A  consummate  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  of  the  springs  moving  human  conduct 
is  here  displayed. 

Some  of  the  poems,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
hardly  come  under  the  category  of  fable  at  all. 
To  this  list  belong  "The  Wheat-Ear,"  and  "The 
Thistle,"  each  full  of  tenderest  meaning,  and 
showing  the  closest  observation  of  nature. 

A  lapse  of  nearly  ten  years  brings  us  down  to 
the  publication  of  Lord  Lytton's  epic  of  modern 
life,  Glenaveril.  Why  is  it  that  whilst  Lucile 
attained  immediate  popularity,  this  far  more 
brilliant,  original,  and  finished  work  yet  awaits 
the  recognition  it  deserves  ?  The  reason  is  not 
hard  to  discover.  Lucile^  sparkling,  full  of  life, 
colour,  and  movement,  appealed  to  the  vast 
majority  of  readers.  It  is  a  book  for  relaxation, 
not  study,  one  we  may  put  in  our  pocket,  like 
a  novel,  for  spare  moments. 

Glenaveril  belongs  to  a  wholly  different  stamp. 
The  plot  is  very  involved.  It  occupies  two  closely- 
printed  volumes  ;  it  contains  political  satire  sure 
to  offend  very  large  numbers  ;  last  of  all,  it  exacts 
attention. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  two  foster-brothers, 
whose  life-story  is  so  intricately  and  tragically 
interwoven,  the  old  German  pedant,  the  modern 


xviii  INTRODUCTION, 

Robinson  Crusoe,  Cordelia — could  not  the  author 
have  invented  a  name  for  his  heroine? — all  these 
are  charming  creations.  Interspersed  with  the 
narrative  are  brilliant  passages,  reflective  and 
dramatic,  also  some  of  those  fables  and  fairy  tales 
in  which  Lord  Lytton  has  hardly  a  rival,  and  his  high 
level  of  artistic  finish  is  everywhere  maintained. 

Yet  even  sympathetic  readers  might  desire 
certain  excisions.  The  work  would  undoubtedly 
gain  much  by  judicious  condensation.  A  poem 
sent  into  the  world  in  the  form  of  two  bulky 
volumes  is  unavoidably  handicapped  from  the 
practical  point  of  view— to  put  it  bluntly,  as  a 
marketable  commodity.  Only  one  or  two  extracts 
are  given  from  Gleiiaverll^  but  readers  must  go  to 
the  poem  itself  for  any  grasp  of  its  scope  and 
character. 

The  following  verses  may  be  taken  as  the  key- 
note:— 

"  What  she  sees  in  love 
Is  life's  most  sacred  mission  from  above. 

A  mission  to  which  few  are  called  perchance, 

And  fewer  still  are  chosen,  to  effect 
The  revelation  and  deliverance 

Of  a  sublime  evangel,  whose  elect 
Evangelists,  each  worldly  circumstance 

That  contradicts  its  truth,  must  need  reject  .  .  . 

How  should  I  know  what  passes  in  the  high 

Ethereal  regions  of  which  souls  like  hers 
Are  the  inhabitants  !     Such  regions  lie 
Beyond  my  reach,  where  Earth  with  Heaven  confers  1 
Yet  though  I  cannot  comprehend  them,  I 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

The  more  revere  those  wondrous  characters 
Whose  lives  bestow  on  all  the  human  race 
A  higher  dignity,  a  grander  grace. 

And  in  that  girl  I  humbly  recognise 

One  of  those  rare  surpassing  souls  whose  glow 

Gladdens  the  world  with  beautiful  surprise, 
like  great  creative  poets." 

The  speaker  is  a  blunt,  shrewd,  matter-of-fact 
American.  In  George  Eliot's  novels,  the  painful 
problem  almost  invariably  before  us  is  the 
subjection  of  the  more  elevated  nature  to  the 
inferior.  In  Glenaveril  \vq  find  a  cheerfuller,  we 
will  hope,  truer  theory.  The  effect  of  ideal 
characters  upon  those  infinitely  below  them,  only 
attracted  upward  by  virtue  of  sympathy,  is  subtly 
and  beautifully  worked  out. 

With  the  little  \o\nvciQ  &nX.\\.\Q.di  After  Paradise j 
or.  Legends  of  Exile  (1887)  closes  this  brief  survey. 
Concerning  the  poet's  latest  effort  I  cannot  do 
better  than  quote  from  a  critic  before  alluded  to. 
"  The  best  of  these  poems  are  not  only  superior  to 
anything  Lord  Lytton  has  yet  produced,  but  are 
such  as  to  entitle  him  to  a  very  high  place  among 
contemporary  poets.  The  merit,  however,  of  these 
last  is  of  a  peculiar  order,  and  that,  perhaps,  not 
likely  to  attract  a  very  large  circle  of  readers. 
The  peculiarity  consists  in  a  combination  of  two 
elements — the  fantastic  and  the  philosophical. 
Lord  Lytton  transports  us  into  a  world  of  airy 
fancy,  a  world  purely  imaginative  ;  yet  through  all 
the  imagination  the  reflective  vein  runs  so  strongly 
as  to  make  it  clear  that  as  much   importance  is 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

attached  to  the  underlying  thought  as  to  the 
poetical  medium  in  which  it  is  conveyed.  In  this 
peculiar  department  of  poetry  Lord  Lytton  appears 
to  us  to  have  established  something  like  a  claim 
to  pre-eminence.  The  'Legend  of  Music'  and 
'Uriel'  are  poems  as  original  as  they  are  beauti- 
ful, and  we  do  not  think  any  other  living  writer 
could  have  produced  them.  .  .  .  For  originality, 
for  wealth  of  poetic  diction,  for  the  harmonious 
flow  of  its  verse,  and  for  the  subtle  and  creative 
fancy  which  it  displays,  the  'Legend  of  Music' 
deserves  to  take  its  rank  with  the  best  poems  the 
century  has  produced." 

The  Legends  of  Exile  form  a  series,  and 
must  be  read  as  a  whole  to  be  understood  and 
appreciated.  On  this  account,  also  because  of  its 
length,  much  to  my  regret,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  leave  out  the  "  Legend  of  Music,"  which 
would  best  convey  the  spirit  and  range  of  the 
volume. 

Whence  comes  the  Ideal?  This  is  the  problem 
the  poet  has  set  himself  to  work  out,  on  lines  of 
his  own.  Imbued  with  the  philosophy  of  Plato, 
he  regards, 

"Our  birth  as  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting " — 

knowledge  as  a  reminiscence  of  what  we  have 
experienced  in  a  former  condition. 

"  Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing." 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

The  Ideal  is  therefore  memory,  a  bright  ray  shot 
up  from  a  sun  that  has  for  ever  sunk  behind  our 
mortal  horizon.  It  will  easily  be  seen  how  well 
the  Biblical  story  of  the  Fall  lends  itself  to  such 
a  theory.  Music,  love,  poetry,  are  recollections, 
dreams,  the  Ideal  itself  a  golden  vision,  never  to 
be  grasped.  Pessimistic  as  is  this  doctrine, 
and  opposed  to  the  modern  Socialistic  dictum, 
"The  Golden  Ag^e  is  before  us  and  not  behind," 
we  must  remember  that  the  poet's  ideal  refers 
to  spiritual  things  only,  not  to  the  material 
side  of  existence,  which  certainly  shows  a  pro- 
gressive and  no  retrograde  movement.  Is  there 
not  truth  here  ?  Can  we  look  about  us  and  feel 
sure  that  we  are  any  nearer  an  inner  ideal  of 
life  than  Plato?  Is  there  not  a  certain  measure  of 
truth  in  Renan's  wail  over  the  gradual  vulgarisation 
of  life  and  society.?* 

In  "Uriel"  and  "Strangers,"  detached  pieces 
forming  no  part  of  The  Legends  of  Exile^  the 
same  theme  is  handled  with  great  power  and 
pathos. 

The  first  is  a  parable  which  each  reader  may 
interpret  after  his  own  fashion.  Be  they  "  bright- 
eyed  desires,"  passions,  enthusiasms,  or  ideals, 
the  Legions  which  Uriel  led  forth  to  do  battle 
with  the  world,  at  the  bidding — shall  we  say  of  duty, 

*  "  Peut-etre  la  vulgarite  g^nerale  sera-t-elle  un  jour  la 
condition  du  bonheur  des  ^lus.  La  vulgarite  Americaine  ne 
brulerait  point  Bruno,  ne  persecuterait  point  Galilee,  Nous 
n'avons  pas  le  droit  d'etre  fort  difficiles, " 

— Renan,  Souvenirs  de  Jeunesse. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

ambition,  love,  or  imagination  ? — lie  vanquished 
around  him.  He  is  but  chief  of  a  slaughtered 
band.  Yet  once  more  the  voice  makes  itself 
heard,  urges  him  forth  a  second  time  to  become 
the  sport  of  destiny,  to  be  finally  crushed  and 
overcome.  In  the  cold,  cynical  atmosphere  of 
disenchantment  he  hears  another  voice — 

"  Some  say  it  is  Despair, 
And  others  say  it  is  Experience." 

"Strangers"  will  appear  at  first  sight  to  many 
readers  fragmentary,  obscure,  perhaps  incoherent. 
Those  who  read  and  re-read  will,  we  think,  accord 
it  a  foremost  place  among  Lord  Lytton's  shorter 
poems.  The  deepest  note  of  human  feeling  is 
here  struck.  And  it  is  one  of  sadness,  even  of 
despair.  The  ideal  world  of  spiritual -minded 
humanity  is  a  disillusion.  Love,  able  to  re-create 
after  its  own  image,  becomes  in  turn  victim  of 
its  magnanimity.  The  mission  of  the  lofty, 
angelic  nature,  is  to  love,  to  sacrifice  self  and  to 
suffer ! — a  conclusion  sad  enough,  but  borne  out 
by  the  history  of  the  world  from  the  beginning 
until  now. 

Our  poet,  whose  sympathy  is  ever  with  what 
is  elevated  and  noble,  leaves  a  more  inspiriting 
message  to  the  work-a-day  world. 

"  Deep  in  Nature's  undrained  Cornucopia, 
Every  good  that  man  seeks,  he  shall  find  : 
And  to  fools,  only  fools  is  Utopia 
The  abode  of  the  hopes  of  mankind. 


INTRO  D  UCTION.  xxiii 

For  whate'er  God  hath  made  for  man's  good 
He  hath  granted  man  means  to  attain  ; 

Say  thou  therefore  '  I  will,'  not  *  I  would/ 
Undeterred  by  the  coward's  disdain." 

Having  now  surveyed  the  harvest,  we  offer 
this  sheaf  of  golden  grain,  feeling  sure  that  the 
reader's  thanks,  as  well  as  our  own,  will  be 
heartily  accorded  the  generous  author  who  has 
permitted  such  lavish  gleanings. 

M.  B.-E. 

Note. — In  accordance  with  Lord  Lytton's  wishes,  the 
poems,  as  far  as  possible,  appear  according  to  the  date  of 
their  original  publication.  Many  of  the  early  pieces  are 
from  revised  versions. 


poems  ot  ©wen  /iDeteMtl) 

(The  Earl  of  Lytton). 
»#« 

From    ''CLYTEMNESTRAr 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
X.  —  Clionis. 

The  winds  were  lull'd  in  Aulis;  and  the  day, 
Down-sloped,  was  loitering  to  the  slumbrous  west. 
There  was  no  motion  of  the  glassy  bay. 
The  black  ships  lay  abreast. 
Not  any  cloud  would  cross  the  hollow  skies. 
The  distant  sea  boom'd  faintly.     Nothing  more. 
They  walk'd  about  upon  the  yellow  shore  ; 
Or,  lying  listless,  huddled  groups  supine. 
With  faces  turn'd  towards  the  flat  sea-spine, 
They  plann'd  the  Phrygian  battle  o'er  and  o'er; 
Till  each  grew  sullen,  and  would  talk  no  more. 
But  sat,  dumb-dreaming.     Then  would  some  one  rise, 
And  look  up  at  the  high  mast-heads  with  haggard, 

-   hopeless  eyes. 
Wild  eyes — and,  crowding  round,  yet  wilder  eyes — 
And  gaping,  languid  lips  ; 
And  everywhere  that  men  could  see, 
About  the  black-ribb'd  ships, 

707 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 

Was  nothing  but  the  deep-red  sea; 

The  deep-red  shore ; 

The  deep-red  skies; 

The  deep-red  silence,  thick  with  thirsty  sighs; 

And  daylight,  dying  slowly.     Nothing  more. 

The  tall  masts  stood  upright ; 

And  not  a  sail  above  the  burnish'd  prores ; 

The  languid  sea,  like  one  outwearied  quite, 

Shrank,  dying  inward  into  hollow  shores, 

And  breathless  harbours,  under  sandy  bars ; 

But,  rushing  swift  into  the  hot  broad  blue, 

The  intense,  sultry  stars 

Burn'd  strong,  and  singed  the  simmering  welkin  thro'; 

And,  all  below,  the  sick  and  steaming  brine 

The  spill'd-out  sunset  did  incarnadine. 

At  last  one  broke  the  silence;  and  a  word 

Was  lisp'd  and  buzz'd  about,  from  mouth  to  mouth; 

Pale  faces  grew  more  pale;  wild  whispers  stirr'd; 

And  men,  with  moody,  murmuring  lips,  conferr'd 

In  ominous  tones,  from  shaggy  beards  uncouth : 

As  though  some  wind  had  broken  from  the  blurr'd 

And  blazing  prison  of  the  stagnant  drouth. 

And  stirr'd  the  salt  sea  in  the  stifled  south. 

The  long-robed  priests  stood  round ;  and,  in  the  gloom, 

Under  black  brows,  their  bright  and  greedy  eyes 

Shone  deathfully;  there  was  a  sound  of  sighs, 

Thick-sobb'd  from  choking  throats  among  the  crowd. 

That,  whispering,    gather'd    close,  with   dark   heads 

bow'd ; 
But  no  man  lifted  up  his  voice  aloud, 
For  heavy  hung  o'er  all  the  helpless  sense  of  doom- 
Then,  after  solemn  prayer. 
The  father  bade  the  attendants  tenderly 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 

Lift  her  upon  the  lurid  altar-stone. 

There  was  no  hope  in  any  face ;  each  eye 

Swam  tearful,  that  her  own  did  gaze  upon. 

They  bound  her  helpless  hands  with  mournful  care; 

And  loop'd  up  her  long  hair. 

Back  from  the  altar-stone, 

Slow-moving  in  his  fix^d  place 

A  little  space, 

The  speechless  father  turn'd.     No  word  was  said. 

He  wrapp'd  his  mantle  close  about  his  face, 

In  his  dumb  grief,  without  a  moan. 

The  lopping  axe  was  lifted  overhead. 

Then,  suddenly. 

There  sounded  a  strange  motion  of  the  sea, 

Booming  far  inland;  and  above  the  east 

A  ragged  cloud  rose  slowly,  and  increased. 

Not  one  line  in  the  horoscope  of  Time 

Is  perfect.     O  what  falling  off  is  this, 

When  some  grand  soul,  that  else  had  been  sublime, 

Falls  unawares  amiss, 

And  stoops  its  crested  strength  to  sudden  crime  ! 

So  gracious  a  thing  is  it,  and  sweet. 

In  life's  clear  centre  one  true  man  to  see. 

That  holds  strong  nature  in  a  wise  control; 

Throbbing  out,  all  round,  the  heat 

Of  a  large  and  liberal  soul. 

No  shadow,  simulating  life. 

But  pulses  warm  with  human  nature, 

In  a  soul  of  godlike  stature ; 

Heart,  and  brain,  all  rich  and  rife 

With  noble  instincts;  strong  to  meet 

Time  calmly,  in  his  purposed  place. 

Sound  through  and  through,  and  all  complete; 

Exalting  what  is  low,  and  base; 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 

Enlarging  what  is  narrow,  and  small; 

He  stamps  his  character  on  all, 

And  Avith  his  grand  identity 

Fills  up  Creation's  eye. 

He  will  not  dream  the  aimless  years  away 

In  blank  delay, 

But  makes  eternity  of  to-day, 

And  reaps  the  full-ear'd  time.     For  him 

Nature  her  affluent  horn  doth  brim. 

To  strew  with  fruits  and  flowers  his  way — 

Fruits  ripe,  and  flowers  gay. 

The  clear  soul  in  his  earnest  eyes 

Looks  through  and  through  all  plaited  lies; 

Time  shall  not  rob  him  of  his  youth 

Nor  narrow  his  large  sympathies. 

He  is  not  true,  he  is  a  truth, 

And  such  a  truth  as  never  dies. 

Who  knows  his  nature,  feels  his  right, 

And,  toiling,  toils  for  his  delight; 

Not  as  slaves  toil :  where'er  he  goes, 

The  desert  blossoms  with  the  rose. 

He  trusts  himself  in  scorn  of  doubt, 

And  lets  orb'd  purpose  widen  out. 

The  world  works  with  him;  all  men  see 

Some  part  of  them  fulfiU'd  in  him ; 

His  memory  never  shall  grow  dim ; 

He  holds  the  heaven  and  earth  in  fee. 

Not  following  that,  fulfilling  this, 

He  is  immortal,  for  he  is  I 

O  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  young  that  die; 

As  it  were  pale  flowers  that  wither  under 


CL  YTEMNESTRA, 

The  smiting  sun,  and  fall  asunder, 

Before  the  dews  on  the  grass  are  dry, 

Or  the  tender  twilight  is  out  of  the  sky, 

Or  the  lilies  have  fall'n  asleep; 

Or  ships  by  a  wanton  wind  cut  short. 

And  wreck'd  in  sight  of  the  placid  port, 

Sinking  strangely,  and  suddenly — 

Sadly,  and  strangely,  and  suddenly— 

Into  the  black  Plutonian  deep. 

O  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep,  and  bow  the  head. 

For  those  whose  sun  is  set  at  noon : 

Whose  night  is  dark,  without  a  moon  : 

Whose  aim  of  life  is  sped 

Beyond  pursuing  woes. 

And  the  arrow  of  angry  foes, 

To  the  darkness  that  no  man  knows — 

The  darkness  among  the  dead. 

Let  us  mourn,  and  bow  the  head, 

And  lift  up  the  voice,  and  weep 

For  the  early  dead ! 

For  the  early  dead  we  may  bow  the  head. 

And  strike  the  breast,  and  weep ; 

But,  oh,  what  shall  be  said 

For  the  living  sorrow  ? 

For  the  living  sorrow  our  grief — 

Dumb  grief — draws  no  relief 

From  tears,  nor  yet  may  borrow 

Solace  from  sound,  or  speech ;  — 

For  the  living  sorrow 

That  heaps  to-morrow  upon  to-morrow 

In  piled  up  pain,  beyond  Hope's  reach  ! 

It  is  well  that  we  mourn  for  the  early  dead. 

Strike  the  breast,  and  bow  the  head ; 

For  the  sorrow  for  these  may  be  sung,  or  said, 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 

And  the  chaplets  be  woven  for  the  fallen  head, 

And  the  urns  to  the  stately  tombs  be  led, 

And  love  on  their  memory  may  be  fed, 

And  song  may  ennoble  the  anguish ; 

But,  oh,  for  the  living  sorrow — 

For  the  living  sorrow  what  hopes  remain? 

For  the  prison'd,  pining,  passionate  pain 

That  is  doom'd  for  ever  to  languish, 

And  to  languish  for  ever  in  vain, 

For  the  want  of  the  words  that  may  bestead 

The  hunger  that  out  of  loss  is  bred. 

O  friends,  for  the  living  sorrow — 

For  the  living  sorrow — 

For  the  living  sorrow  what  shall  be  said? 


XX. — Chorus  {conclusion). 

Only  Heaven  is  high. 
Only  the  Gods  are  great. 
Above  the  searchless  sky. 
In  unremoved  state  ; 
They,  from  their  golden  mansions, 
Look  over  the  lands,  and  seas ; 
The  ocean's  wide  expansions, 
And  the  earth's  varieties : 
Secure  of  their  supremacy, 
And  sure  of  affluent  ease. 
Who  shall  say  "I  stand  !"  nor  fall? 
Destiny  is  over  all  ! 
Rust  will  crumble  old  renown. 
Keep  and  castle,  tower  and  town, 
Bust  and  column  tumble  down ; 
Throne,  and  sceptre;  crest,  and  crown. 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 

Destiny  is  over  all ! 
One  by  one,  the  pale  guests  fall 
At  lighted  feast,  in  palace  hall ; 
And  feast  is  turn'd  to  funeral. 
Who  shall  say  '*  I  stand  I"  nor  fall  ? 
1  )estiny  is  over  all ! 


THE  MAGIC  LAND. 


From  "  THE  WANDERER:' 


THE  MAGIC  LAND. 


By  woodland  belt,  by  ocean  bar, 

The  full  south  breeze  our  foreheads  fann'd. 
And  lightly  roll'd  round  moon  and  star 

Low  music  from  the  Magic  Land, 


By  ocean  bar,  by  woodland  belt, 

More  fragrant  grew  the  glowing  night, 

While,  faint  thro'  dark  blue  air,  we  felt 
The  breath  of  some  unnamed  Delight; 


III. 

Till  Morning  rose,  and  smote  from  far 
Her  elfin  harps.     Then  sea,  and  sky, 

And  woodland  belt,  and  ocean  bar, 
To  one  sweet  note,  sigh'd  Italy  i 


DESIRE. 


DESIRE. 


The  Night  is  come, — ah,  not  too  soon! 

I  have  waited  her  wearily  all  day  long, 
^Vhile  the  heart,  now  husht,  of  the  feverish  noon 

In  his  burthen'd  bosom  was  beating  strong. 
But  the  cool  clear  light  of  the  quiet  moon 

Hath  quench'd  day's  fever,  and  forth  in  song, 
One  by  one,  with  a  buoyant  flight, 
Arise  day's  wishes  releast  by  night. 


The  night  is  come !     On  the  hills  above 

Her  dusky  hair  she  hath  shaken  free, 
And  her  tender  eyes  are  dim  with  love, 

And  her  balmy  bosom  lies  bare  to  me. 
She  hath  loosen'd  the  shade  of  the  cedar  grove. 

And  shaken  it  over  the  long  dark  lea, 
She  hath  kindled  the  glow-worm,  and  cradled  the 
dove. 

In  the  silent  cypress  tree. 


0  Hesperus,  bringer  of  all  sweet  things, 
Hear  me  in  heaven,  and  favour  my  call ! 

Bring  me,  O  bring  me,  what  naught  else  brings 
The  one  sweet  thing  that  is  sweeter  than  all. 

Bring  me  unto  her,  or  bring  her  to  me. 
Whose  unseen  eyes  I  have  felt  from  afar. 

1  feel  I  am  near  her,  but  where  is  she? 

I  know  I  shall  find  her,  but  when  shall  it  be? 
O  hasten  it,  Hesperus  starl 


5  FA  TALITY. 

My  heart,  as  a  wind-thrilled  lyre, 

Throbs  audibly.     Bright  in  the  grove, 
Like  mine  own  thoughts  taking  fire, 

The  star-flies  hover  and  rove. 
Arise!  go  forth,  keen-eyed,  swift-wing'd  Desire! 

Thou  art  the  Bird  of  Jove, 
And  strong  to  bear  the  thunders  that  destroy, 
Or  fetch  the  ravisht  flute-playing  Phrygian  boy. 

Go  forth  athwart  the  world,  and  find  my  love ! 


FATALITY. 


I  HAVE  seen  her, — the  Summer  in  her  soft  hair. 
And  the  blush-rose  husht  in  her  face, 
And  the  violet  hid  in  her  eyes  ! 
And  my  heart,  in  love  with  its  own  despair, 
Speeded  each  pulse's  passionate  pace 
To  that  goal  where  pain  is  the  prize. 


11. 

Hair,  a  Summer  of  glories  fill'd 
With  odours!     Lips  that  are  ever  Spring; 
The  budding  and  birth  of  all  joys  that  be, 
All  blossoms  that  brighten,  all  beams  that  gild, 
All  birds  that  gladden,  all  breaths  that  bring 
Delight  to  the  spirit  in  me. 


FATALITY.  1 1 


And  oh,  that  smile  of  divine  surprise, 

That  slid  out  slowly,  and  lapp'd  me  round 
With  a  rosy  rapture  of  warmth  and  light ! 
It  began  in  the  dark  of  her  deep  blue  eyes, 
And,  o'erflowing  her  face  and  her  faint  lips, 
drown 'd 
Past,  present,  and  future,  quite. 


In  a  sea  of  wonder  without  a  shore. 

As  tho',  while  you  gaze  at  a  drop  of  dew, 
It  should  silently  open,  and  softly  rise. 
And  spread  to  a  deluge,  and  cover  you  o'er. 
So  round  me,  and  over  me,  greaten'd  and  grew 
The  smile  of  those  sorrowful  eyes. 


What  sort  of  a  world  will  the  world  be  now  ? 
Oh,  never  again  what  the  world  hath  been ! 
And  how  happen'd  this  marvellous  change  ? 
What  my  old  life  meant  I  begin  to  know, 

But  I  know  not  what  may  this  new  life  mean. 
It  is  all  so  sweet  and  strange  ! 


Enough  to  be  sure  of, — that,  hand  in  hand, 
We  have  seen,  with  each  other's  eyes, 
The  heavens  grow  happier  o'er  us, 
And,  here  below,  in  the  lovely  land, 
As,  there  above,  in  the  blissful  skies, 
A  world  of  beauty  before  us  ! 


1 2  THO UGHTS  AT  S UNSE T. 


THOUGHTS  AT  SUNRISE. 

The  lark  leaves  the  earth, 

With  the  dew  on  his  breast. 
And  my  love's  at  the  birth, 
And  my  life's  at  the  best. 
What  bliss  shall  I  bid  the  beam  bring  thee 

To-day,  love  ? 
What  care  shall  I  bid  the  breeze  fling  thee 

Away,  love? 

What  song  shall  I  bid  the  bird  sing  thee, 

O  say,  love? 

For  the  beam,  and  the  breeze, 

And  the  birds — all  of  these 

(Eeca,use  thou  hast  loved  me)  my  bidding  obey,  love. 

Now  the  lark's  in  the  light, 

And  the  dew  on  the  bough. 
And  my  heart's  at  the  height 
Of  the  day  that  dawns  now. 


THOUGHTS  AT  SUNSET. 


Just  at  sunset  I  would  be 
In  a  bowery  island.     Tree 
Interlacing  tree  shall  strew 
Sighs  and  shadows  over  me  ; 
Whom  some  Odysseian  crew 
(Far  too  foolish,  or  too  wise, 
Here  in  happy  laowers  to  be 
Woo'd  away  from  labour  due 


THOUGHTS  AT  SUNSET 

To  their  chieftain's  stern  emprise) 
Putting  forth  in  haste  to  sea, 
Half  an  hour  before  moon-rise, 
Left  behind  them,  fancy-free, 
Careless  of  their  shouts  and  cries, 
Mine  own  pleasure  to  pursue 
Thro'  the  warm  isle's  witcheries. 
And,  if  anywhere  the  breeze 
Shall  have  stirr'd  those  island  trees, 
I,  forthwith,  may  haply  view 
(Lying,  luU'd  by  leafy  sighs. 
Underneath  in  grassy  ease) 
Who  knows  what  of  strange  and  new 
Some  white  naiad's  wistful  eyes  ? 
Or  a  wood-nymph's  rosy  knees  ? 
Or  a  faun's  hoof  peeping  thro'  ? 
These,  or  stranger  things  than  these ! 


II. 

Nay  I  already  Fancy,  tired 
Of  her  isle  too  soon  desired, 
Lightly  borne  on  laughing  wind 
Leaves  the  lazy  land  behind. 
For  the  seaborn  airs  that  sigh 
All  about  the  rosy  sky 
Seem,  in  wishful  tones,  to  say 
*'  Rise,  O  rise,  and  haste  away!" 
Seen  from  sea  is  sunset  best. 
Forth  into  the  boundless  west. 
Ere  yon  sinking  sun  be  set  I 
Where  the  seas  and  skies  are  met, 
And  the  lights  are  loveliest 
Round  the  deathbed  of  the  day, 
Find  me  on  the  breezy  deck 


14  THOUGHTS  A T  SUNSET. 

Of  some  fleet  felucca, — nest 
Of  old  seabirds,  born  for  prey, 
Who  these  shallow  seas  infest. 
Fancy  me  brown -faced  as  they, 
With  hawk  eyes  that  watch  one  speck 
'Twixt  the  crimson  and  the  yellow; 
Which  shall  be  a  little  fleck 
Of  cloud,  or  gull  with  outstretcht  neck, 
To  Spezia  bound  from  Cape  Circello. 
With  a  sea-song  in  mine  ears 
Of  the  bronzen  buccaniers, 
While  the  night  is  waxing  mellow. 
And  the  helmsman  slackly  steers — 
Leaning,  talking  to  his  fellow. 
Who  hath  oaths  for  all  he  hears ; 
Each  thief  swarthier  than  Othello  ! 


Ah,  but  wander  where  she  will, 
Here  is  Fancy's  birthplace  still; 
And,  tho'  far  and  wide  she  roam, 
Long  she  may  not  leave  her  home. 
Dear,  I  have  not  any  want 
Deeper  than  to  be  with  you. 
When  the  low  beam,  falling  slant, 
Stains  the  heaven  with  rosy  hue, 
And,  with  shuddering  pleasure,  pant 
The  awaken'd  woodlands  blue ; 
And  about  his  leafy  haunt, 
While  the  stars  are  faint  and  few, 
The  tumultous  firefly  flashes; 
And  such  languor  softens  thro' 
The  deep  lights  'neath  these  long  lashes 
As  the  heart,  it  steals  into. 


TO  IRENE.  15 

First  inspires,  and  then  abashes. 

Just  to  touch  your  hand — one  touch, 

The  lightest — more  would  be  too  much  ; 

Just  to  watch  you  leaning  o'er 

That  wandering  window- rose  .  .    .  no  more! 


TO  IRENE. 

As,  in  lone  faerylands,  'twixt  coral  shelf 
And  beryl  shaft,  to  deck  the  moonlit  cave 
Where  haply  dwells  some  beautiful  Queen-Elf, 
Laden  with  light  and  music,  a  spent  wave 
Strews  its  unvalued  sea-wealth  (pearl  and  gem 
Sent  up  in  homage  from  the  Deep,  her  slave  !) 
Then  sinks  back,  sighing,  into  the  salt  sea ; 
So,  from  my  life's  love-laden  deeps,  to  thee 
I  pour  these  poems.     Do  not  thou  contemn 
Gifts  offer'd  to  thee  only.     Let  them  have 
All  they  were  born  for, — not  the  more  or  less 
Of  aught  that  grudging  hucksters  ever  gave 
For  such  sea-treasures  with  a  greedy  guess 
At  this  or  that  pearl's  price  in  weigh'd-out  pelf, 
— But  place  in  the  imperial  diadem 
Of  thine  own  fay-born  beauty's  queenliness. 
More  worth  is  in  them  than  mere  words  express. 
Such  pearl-buds,  torn  from  buried  branch  and  stem 
Of  life's  deep-hidden  growths,  attest  love's  stress. 
Look  down,  and  see  in  my  sad  silent  self, 
Beneath  all  words,  where  love  lies  fathomless; 
And  so,  dear  love,  for  love's  sake  value  them. 
Love's  words  are  weak,  but  not  love's  silences. 


i6  AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY. 

AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY. 

Close,  O  close  and  clasp,  the  pages 

Of  that  too-long-paniper'd  book  ! 
Leave  all  poets  of  past  ages. 

You,  my  living  poem  J     Look, 
Down  the  summer-colour'd  weather 

The  sweet  day  begins  to  sink  ! 
And  the  thought  that  we're  together 

Is  the  sole  thought  I  can  think. 
Cool  the  breeze  mounts,  like  this  Chianti 

Which  I  drain  down  to  the  sun. 
So  away  with  your  green  Dante  ! 

Turn  the  page — where  we  begun — 
At  the  last  news  of  Ulysses — 

A  grand  image,  fit  to  close 
Such  great  golden  eves  as  this  is, 

Full  of  splendour  and  repose  ! 
And  look  down  now,  o'er  the  city 

Sleeping  soft  among  the  hills — 
Our  dear  Florence  !     That  great  Pitti 

With  its  steady  shadow  fills 
Half  the  town  up  :  its  unwinking 

Cold  white  windows,  as  they  glare 
Down  the  long  streets,  set  one  thinking 

Of  the  old  Dukes  who  lived  there; 
For  one  knows  them,  those  strange  men,  sc 

Subtle  brains,  and  iron  thews  ! 
There,  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo — 

The  long  cypress  avenues — 
Creep  up  slow  the  stately  hillside 

Where  the  merry  loungers  are. 
But  far  more  I  love  this  still  side — 

The  blue  plain  you  see  so  far  ! 
Where  the  shore  of  bright  white  villas 


AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY.  17 

Leaves  off  faint :  and  faint  the  stream 
Creeps  from  bridge  to  bridge  as  still  as 

Some  husht  gladness  thro'  a  dream. 
On  the  mountain  slopes  in  glory 

Lingers  still  the  sinking  sun  : 
But  up  here — slow,  cold,  and  hoary. 

Climb  the  olives,  one  by  one: 
And  the  land  looks  fresh :  the  yellow 

Arbute-berries,  here  and  there, 
Growing  slowly  ripe  and  mellow 

Through  a  flush  of  rosy  hair. 
For  the  Tramontana  last  week 

Was  about.     'Tis  scarce  three  weeks 
Since  the  snow  lay,  one  white  vast  streak. 

Upon  those  old  purple  peaks. 
So  to-day  among  the  grasses 

One  may  pick  up  tens  and  twelves 
Of  young  olives,  as  one  passes, 

Blown  about,  and  by  themselves 
Blackening  sullen-ripe.     The  corn  too 

Grows  each  day  from  green  to  golden. 
The  large-eyed  windflovvers  forlorn  too 

Blow  among  it,  unbeholden. 
Bind  these  bounteous  curls  from  falling, 

O  my  beautiful,  my  own  ! 
'Tis  for  you  the  cuckoo's  calling. 

Hark  !  that  plaintive  mellow  moan 
Up  the  hillside,  floating  nearer, 

Past  the  two  white  convent  towers, 
Where  the  air  is  cooler,  clearer, 

Round  our  calm  and  pleasant  bowers. 
Oh,  that  night  of  purple  weather  ! 

(Just  before  the  moon  had  set), 
You  remember  how  together 

We  walk'd  home  ? — the  grass  was  wet— 

708 


AJV  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY, 

The  long  grass  in  the  Poder6 — 

With  the  balmy  dew  among  it : 
And  that  nightingale — his  airy 

Song— how  joyously  he  sung  it  1 
All  the  fig-trees  had  grown  heavy 

With  the  young  figs  white  and  woolly : 
And  the  fireflies,  bevy  on  bevy 

Of  soft  sparkles,  pouring  fully 
Their  warm  life  through  trance  on  trances 

Of  thick  citron-shades  behind, 
Rose,  like  swarms  of  loving  fancies 

Through  some  rich  and  pensive  mind. 
So  we  reach'd  the  Logia.     Leaning 

Faint,  we  sat  there  in  the  shade. 
Neither  spake.     The  night's  deep  meaning 

Fill'd  the  silence  up  unsaid. 
Hoarsely  through  the  cypress-alley 

A  civetta*  out  of  tune 
Tried  his  voice  by  fits.     The  valley 

Lay  all  dark  below  the  moon. 
Until  into  song  you  burst  out — 

That  old  song  I  made  for  you 
When  we  found  our  rose — the  first  out 

Last  sweet  Spring-time  in  the  dew. 
Well !  ...  if  things  had  gone  less  wildly- 
Had  I  settled  down  before 
There,  in  England — labour'd  mildly — 

And  been  patient — and  learn'd  more 
Of  how  men  should  live  in  London — 

Been  less  happy — or  more  wise — 
Left  no  great  works  tried  and  undone — 

Never  look'd  in  your  soft  eyes — 
I  .   .  .   but  what's  the  use  of  thinking? 

Hark  !  our  nightingale — he  sings — 
*  Screech-owl. 


THE  STORM.  19 

Now  a  rising  note— now  sinking 

Back  in  little  broken  rings 
Of  warm  song,  that  spread,  and  eddy — 

Now  he  picks  up  heart — and  draws 
His  great  music,  slow  and  steady, 

To  a  silver-centred  pause  ! 


THE    STORM. 


Both  hollow  and  hill  were  as  dumb  as  death, 
While  the  heavens  were  moodily  changing  form. 
And  the  hush  that  is  herald  of  creeping  storm 

Had  made  heavy  the  crouch'd  land's  breath. 


At  the  wide-flung  casement  she  stood,  full  height, 
With  her  glittering  hair  tumbled  over  her  back. 
And,  against  the  black  sky's  supernatural  black, 

Shone  her  white  neck,  scornfully  white. 


I  could  catch  not  a  gleam  of  her  anger'd  eyes, 
(She  was  sullenly  watching  the  storm-cloud  roll), 
But  I  felt  they  were  drawing  down  into  her  soul 

The  thunder  that  darken'd  the  skies. 


"  And  so  do  we  part,  then,  for  ever?  "  I  said. 

"  O  speak  only  one  word,  and  I  pardon  the  rest ! 

For  sole  answer,  her  white  scarf  over  her  breast 
She  tighten'd,  not  turning  her  head. 


20  THE  STORM. 


**  Ah,  must  sweet  love  cruelly  play  with  pain? 
Or,"  I  groan'd,  **  are  those  blue  eyes  such  deserts 

of  blindness 
That,  O  woman,  your  heart  hath  no  heed  of  un- 
kindness 
To  the  man  on  whose  breast  it  hath  lain?" 


VI. 

Then  alive  leapt  the  lightning.     She  turn'd,  in  its 
glare, 
And  the  tempest  had  clothed  her  with  terror  :  it 

clung 
To  the  folds  of  her  vaporous  garments,  and  hung 
In  the  heaps  of  her  heavy  wild  hair. 


One  word  broke  the  silence :  but  one :  and  it  fell 
With  the  weight  of  a  mountain  upon  me.     Next 

moment 
All  was  bellowing  thunder,  and  she  from  my  com- 
ment 
Was  gone  ere  it  ceased.     Who  can  tell 


How  I  got  to  my  home  in  the  horrible  hills. 

Thro'  black  swimmings  of  storm  and  burst  seams  of 

blue  rain  ? 
Sick,  I  lean'd  from  the  lattice,  and  dizzy  with  pain. 

And  listen'd — and  heard  the  loud  rills, 


THE  STORM.  21 


IX. 


And  look'd, — and  beheld  the  red  moon  low  in  air. 

Then  my  heart  leapt  ...  I  felt,  and  foreknew,  it, 
before 

I  heard  her  light  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  ! 
When  it  open'd  at  last, — she  was  there  ! 


Childlike,  and  wistful,  and  sorrow-eyed. 

With  the  rain  in  her  hair,  and  the  tears  on  her  cheek, 
Down  she  knelt — all  her  fair  forehead  fallen  and  meek 

In  the  light  of  the  moon — at  my  side. 


And  she  call'd  me  by  every  caressing  old  name 
She  of  old  had  invented  and  chosen  for  me. 
While  she  crouch'd  at  my  feet,  with  her  cheek  on  my 
knee, 

Like  a  wild  thing  grown  suddenly  tame. 


XII. 

'Twas  no  vision  !     This  morning,  the  earth,  prest  beneath 
Her  light  foot  keeps  the  print.     'Twas  no  vision  last 

night  1 
For  the  lily  she  dropp'd,  as  she  went,  is  yet  white 

With  the  dew  on  its  delicate  sheath  1 — 


22  SONG. 

SONG. 


As  the  one  star  that,  left  by  the  morning, 

Is  more  noticed  than  all  night's  host. 
As  the  late  lone  rose  of  October, 

For  its  rareness  regarded  the  most, 
As  the  least  of  the  leaves  in  December 

That  is  loved  as  the  last  on  the  tree, 
So  sweetest  of  all  to  remember 

Is  thy  love's  latest  promise  to  me. 


We  must  love,  and  unlove,  and,  it  may  be, 

Live  into,  and  out  of  anon, 
Lovetimes  no  few  in  a  lifetime. 

Ere  lifetime  and  lovetime  be  one. 
For  to  love  it  is  hard,  and  'tis  harder 

Perchance  to  be  loved  again. 
But  if  living  be  not  loving, 

Then  living  is  all  in  vain. 


To  the  tears  I  have  shed,  and  regret  not, 

What  matters  a  few  more  tears  ? 
Why  should  love,  that  is  present  for  ever. 

Be  afraid  of  the  absence  of  years  ? 
When  the  snow's  at  the  door,  and  the  ember 

Is  dim,  and  I  far  o'er  the  sea, 
Remember,  beloved,  O  remember 

That  my  love's  latest  trust  was  in  thee  I 


FORBEARANCE,  ij 

THE   FIRST   FAREWELL. 


I  MAY  not  kiss  away  the  tears  that  still 

Hang  on  the  lids  which  those  loved  eyes  enshrine. 
I  may  not  weep  away  the  tears  that  fill 

These  aching  eyes  of  mine. 


Sleep  on,  sad  soul,  shelter'd  from  love  and  pain ! 

Or  haply  shelter  love  from  pain  with  thee 
In  thy  sweet  dreams.     When  we  two  meet  again, 

'Tis  but  in  dreams  'twill  be. 


FORBEARANCE. 


Call  me  not,  love,  unthankful,  nor  unkind, 
That  I  have  left  my  heart  with  thee,  and  fled. 

I  were  not  worth  that  wealth  which  I  resign'd, 
Had  I  not  chosen  poverty  instead. 


Leaving,  I  love  thee  bebt.     I  dare  not  swerve 
From  my  soul's  rights, — a  slave  tho'  serving  thee. 

I  but  forbear  more  nobly  to  deserve. 
The  free  gift  only  cometh  of  the  free. 


24  A  LOVE-LETTER. 

TO  A  WOMAN;   OR,  THE  LAST  WISH. 

Since  all  that  I  can  ever  do  for  thee 
Is  to  do  nothing,  this  my  prayer  must  be : 
That  thou  may'st  never  guess  nor  ever  see 
The  all-endured  this  nothing-done  costs  me. 


A  LOVE-LETTER. 


My  love, — my  chosen, — but  not  mine  !  I  send 
My  whole  heart  to  thee  in  these  words  I  write; 

So  let  the  blotted  lines,  my  soul's  sad  friend, 
Lie  upon  thine,  and  there  be  blest,  at  night. 


This  blossom  bruised  whose  purple  blood  will  stain 
The  page  now  wet  with  the  hot  tears  that  fall — 

(Indeed,  indeed,  I  struggle  to  restrain 

The  weight  of  woe  that  breaks  thus,  spite  of  all !) 

III. 

I  pluck'd  it  from  the  branch  you  used  to  praise, 
The  branch  that  hides   the  wall.      I  tend  your 
flowers. 

I  keep  the  paths  we  paced  in  happier  days. 

How  long  ago  they  seem,  those  pleasant  hours  1 


A  LOVE-LETTER.  2; 


IV. 

The  white  laburnum's  out.     Your  judas-tree 
Begins  to  shed  those  crimson  buds  of  his. 

The  nightingales  sing — ah,  too  joyously  ! 

Who  says  those  birds  are  sad  ?     I  think  there  is 


That  in  the  books  we  read,  M'hich  deeper  wrings 
My  heart,  so  they  lie  dusty  on  the  shelf. 

Alas  !  I  meant  to  speak  of  other  things 

Less  sad.     In  vain  !  they  bring  me  to  myself. 


VI. 

I  know  your  patience.     And  I  would  not  cast 
New  shade  on  days  so  dark  as  yours  are  grown, 

By  weak  and  wild  repining  for  the  past, 
Nor  vex  sad  memory  with  a  bootless  moan. 


For  hard  enough  the  daily  cross  you  bear, 
Without  that  deeper  pain  reflection  brings; 

And  all  too  sore  the  fretful  household  care, 
Free  of  the  contrast  of  remember'd  things. 

viir. 

But  ah  !  it  little  profits,  that  we  thrust 

From  all  that's  said,  what  both  must  feel,  unnamed, 
Better  to  face  it  boldly,  as  we  must, 

Than  feel  it  in  the  silence,  and  be  shamed. 


26  A  LOVE-LETTER. 


Irene,  I  have  loved  you,  as  men  love 
Light,  music,  odour,  beauty,  love  itself, — 

Whatever  is  apart  from,  and  above, 
Those  daily  needs  which  deal  with  dust  and  pelf. 


X. 

And  I  had  been  content,  without  one  thought 
Our  guardian  angels  could  have  blush'd  to  know, 

So  to  have  lived  and  died,  demanding  nought 
Save,  living  dying,  to  have  loved  you  so. 


My  youth  was  orphan'd,  and  my  age  will  be 
Childless.     I  have  no  sister.     None,  to  steal 

One  thought  away  from  all  you  are  to  me. 
And  yours  is  all  I  am,  and  think,  and  feel. 

XII. 

My  wildest  wish  was  vassal  to  your  will: 

My  haughtiest  hope,  a  pensioner  on  your  smile, 

That  did  with  light  my  barren  being  fill, 
As  moonlight  glorifies  some  desert  isle. 


I  never  thought  to  know  what  I  have  known, — 
The  ecstasy  of  being  loved  by  you : 

I  never  thought  within  my  heart  to  own 
One  wish  so  blest  that  you  should  share  it  too : 


A  LOVE-LETTER.  27 

XIV. 

Nor  ever  did  I  deem,  contemplating 
The  many  sorrows  in  this  place  of  pain, 

So  strange  a  sorrow  to  my  life  could  cling, 
As,  being  thus  loved,  to  be  beloved  in  vain. 


But  now  we  know  the  best,  the  worst.     We  have 
Interr'd,  and  prematurely,  and  unknown, 

Our  youth,  our  hearts,  our  hopes,  in  one  small  grave, 
Whence  we  must  wander,  widow'd,  to  our  own. 

XVI. 

And  if  we  comfort  not  each  other,  what 
Shall  comfort  us  in  the  dark  days  to  come  ? 

Not  the  light  laughter  of  the  world,  and  not 
The  faces  and  the  firelight  of  fond  home. 


And  so  I  write  to  you  j  and  write,  and  write, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  writing  to  you,  dear. 

What  can  I  tell  you  that  you  know  not  ?     Night 
Is  deepening  through  the  rosy  atmosphere 

XVIII. 

About  the  lonely  casement  of  this  room. 
Which  you  have  left  familiar  with  the  grace 

That  grows  where  you  have   been.      And  on  the 
gloom 
I  almost  fancy  I  can  see  your  face  : 


28  A  LOVE-LETTER. 


Not  pale  with  pain,  and  tears  restrain'd  for  me, 
As  when  I  last  beheld  it ;  but  as  first, 

A  dream  of  rapture  and  of  poesy, 

Upon  my  youth,  like  dawn  on  dark,  it  burst. 


Perchance  I  shall  not  ever  see  again 

That  face.     I  know  that  I  shall  never  see 

Its  radiant  beauty  as  I  saw  it  then. 
Save  by  this  lonely  lamp  of  memory, 

xxr. 

With  childhood's  starry  graces  lingering  yet 
r  the  rosy  orient  of  young  womanhood, 

And  eyes  like  woodland  violets  sunny-wet. 
And  lips  that  left  their  meaning  in  my  blood. 

XXII. 

I  will  not  say  to  you  what  every  day 

Unworthy  preachers  preach  to  worthless  love 

*  Dance  the  graves  bare,  if  pipe  and  tabor  play, 
And  call  faith  folly,  if  the  world  approve  ! ' 


I  will  not  cant  that  commonplace  of  friends, 
Which  never  yet  hath  dried  one  mourner's  tears. 

Nor  say  that  grief's  slow  wisdom  makes  amends 
For  aching  hearts  and  desolated  years; 


A  LOVE-LETTER.  29 

XXIV. 

For  who  would  barter  all  he  hopes  in  life, 

To  be  a  little  wiser  than  his  kind  ? 
Who  arm  his  spirit  for  continued  strife, 

When  all  he  cared  to  keep  is  left  behind  ? 


But  this,  this  only  .  .   .  Love  in  blackest  woe, 
Still  lovelier  than  all  loveless  happiness, 

Hath  brilliancies  of  joy  they  never  know, 
Who  never  knew  the  depth  of  love's  distress. 


My  messenger  (a  man  by  danger  tried) 

Waits  in  the  courts  below;  and  ere  our  star 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  dawn  hath  died, 
Heart  of  my  heart  !  this  letter  will  be  far 


Athwart  the  mountain,  and  the  mist,  to  you. 

I  know  each  robber  hamlet.     I  know  all 
This  mountain  people.     I  have  friends,  both  true 

And  trusted,  sworn  to  aid  whate'er  befall. 


I  have  a  bark  upon  the  gulf.     And  I, 
If  to  my  pain  I  yielded  in  this  hour, 

Might  say  ...   *  Sweet  fellow-sufferer,  let  us  fly 
•  I  know  a  little  isle  which  doth  embower 


30  A  LOVE-LETTER, 


*  A  home  where  exiled  angels  might  forbear 
Awhile  to  mourn  for  Paradise.'  ,  .  .  But  no  ! 

Never,  how  dark  soe'er  my  fate,  and  drear, 
Shalt  thou  reproach  me  for  that  only  woe 

XXX. 

Which  neither  love  can  soothe,  nor  pride  controul; 

Which  dwells  where  duty  dies:    and  haunts  the 
void 
Of  life's  abandon'd  purpose  in  the  soul ; 

The  accusing  ghost  of  what  itself  destroy'd. 


Farewell,  and  yet  again  farewell,  and  yet 
Never  farewell, — if  farewell  mean  to  fare 

Alone  and  disunited.     Love  hath  set 
Our  days,  in  music,  to  the  self-same  air; 


And  I  shall  feel,  wherever  we  may  be. 
Even  though  in  absence  and  an  alien  clime, 

The  shadow  of  the  sunniness  of  thee. 

Hovering,  in  patience,  through  a  clouded  time. 


Farewell !     The  dawn  is  rising,  and  the  light 
Is  making,  in  the  east,  a  faint  endeavour 

To  illuminate  the  mountain  peaks.     Good-night. 
Thine  own,  and  only  thine,  my  love,  for  ever  I 


THE  MESSAGE.  31 


THE  MESSAGE. 

Because  she  hath  the  sweetest  eyes, 

The  bluest,  truest,— and  more  wise 

Than  woodland  violets  wild  in  wood 

To  make  wholesome  the  earth,  and  good ; 

Because  she  hath  such  glad  gold  hair 

That  nothing  in  the  laughing  air 

Of  the  lusty  May,  at  morn, 

When  all  that's  bright  and  glad  is  born, 

Ever  was  so  glad  and  bright ; 

And,  therewith,  a  hand  more  white 

And  warm  than  is  the  warmed  coat 

Of  whiteness  round  a  meek  dove's  throat, 

Yet  withal  so  calm,  so  pure. 

No  ill  passion  may  endure 

That  serenest  hand's  chaste  touch ; 

And  because  my  love  is  such 

That  I  do  not  dare  to  speak, 

Of  the  changes  on  her  cheek. 

Which  the  sunrise  and  sunset 

Of  her  luminous  thoughts  beget, 

Nor  of  her  rose-sweet  mouth,  that  is 

Too  sweet  to  kiss,  or  not  to  kiss, 

'Tis  aye  so  sweet  and  savorous ; 

And  because  (to  comfort  us 

For  what  throbbings  of  sweet  pain 

Come,  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Till  the  wishful  sense  be  full, 

Gazing  on  aught  so  beautiful) 

Such  innocent  wise  ways  she  knoweth. 

And  so  good  is  all  she  doeth, — 

All  she  is,— so  simple,  fair, 

Joyous,  just,  and  debonair. 


32  THE  MESSAGE. 

That  there  is  none  so  ignorant 
Of  worship,  nor  with  soul  so  scant 
Of  visitations  from  above. 
But,  seeing  her,  he  needs  must  love, 
And  purely  love,  her, — and  for  this, 
Love  better  everything  that  is; — 


Therefore  now,  my  Songs,  will  I 

That  ye  into  her  presence  hie, 

Flying  over  land  and  sea, 

Many  an  one,  that  sever  me 

From  the  sweet  thing  that  hath  the  sleeping 

Joy  of  my  shut  heart  in  keeping. 

But,  that  when  ye  hence  be  gone 

Into  the  bounteous  region 

Of  that  bright  land  over  sea 

Wherein  so  many  sweet  things  be, 

Where  my  Lady  aye  doth  dwell, 

Ye  her  dwelling  dear  may  tell, 

Nor  its  special  sweetness  miss 

In  midst  of  many  sweetnesses; 

Yet  awhile,  my  Songs,  delay 

Till  I  have  told  ye,  as  I  may. 

All  the  fairness  of  the  place 

That  is  familiar  with  the  grace 

And  glory  of  my  Lady's  face. 

And  (so  shall  ye  know  that  she 

Dwelleth  in  loftier  light  than  we. 

As  intimate  with  skyey  things 

As  are  creatures  that  have  wings) 

Being  come  to  mountains  seven. 

Note  that  one  that's  nighest  heaven: 

Thereon  lieth  against  the  sun 

A  place  of  pleasaunce,  all  o'errun 


THE  MESSAGE.  33 

With  whisperous  shade,  and  blossoming 

Of  divers  trees,  wherein  do  sing 

The  little  birds,  and  all  together, 

All  day  long  in  happy  weather. 

And  well  I  ween  that  since  the  birth 

Of  Adam's  firstborn,  not  on  earth 

Hath  ever  been  such  sweet  singing 

Of  bird  on  bough,  as  here  doth  bring 

Into  a  large  and  leafy  ease 

His  sense  that  strayeth  among  the  trees, 

Where  mingled  is  full  many  a  note 

Of  golden-finch  and  speckle-throat. 

Even  the  hoarse-chested  starling 

Here,  where  creepeth  never  a  snarling 

Gust  to  vex  his  heart,  all  day 

Learneth  a  more  melodious  lay 

Than  that  whereby  this  bird  is  known, 

Which,  otherwhere,  with  chiding  tone, 

What  time  the  fretful  Spring  doth  heave 

The  frozen  North,  to  winds,  that  grieve 

Round  about  the  grave  of  March, 

He  chaunteth  from  the  cloudy  larch : 

The  linnet  loud,  and  throstle  eke, 

And  the  blackbird  of  golden  beak, 

With  perpetual  madrigals 

Do  melodise  the  warm  green  walls 

Of  those  blossom-crowned  groves. 

In  whose  cool  hearts  the  cooing  doves  \ 

Make  murmurings  innumerable,  ' 

Of  sound  as  sweet  as  when  a  well 

With  noise  of  bubbled  water  leapeth 

At  a  green  couch  where  Silence  sleepeth : 

Nor  less,  the  long-voiced  nightingale 

Doth,  deep  down  in  bloomy  vale 

Delicious,  pour  at  full  noonlight 

709 


34  THE  MESSAGE. 

The  song  he  hath  rehearsed  o'er-night ; 

And  many  other  birds  be  there 

Of  most  sweet  voice,  and  plumage  rare. 

And  names  that  I  not  know.     Of  trees 

That  spring  therein  such  plenty  is 

That  I  to  tell  them  over  all 

Encumber'd  am.     Both  maple  tall 

There  showeth  his  silver-mottled  bark; 

And  beeches,  colour'd  like  the  dark 

Red  wine  o'  the  South;  and  laurels  green. 

Sunny  and  smooth,  that  make  rich  screen 

Round  mossy  places,  where  all  day 

Red  squirrels  and  grey  conies  play, 

Munching  brown  nuts  and  such  wild  fare 

As  tumbleth  from  the  branches  there. 

And,  for  moisture  of  sweet  showers, 

All  the  grass  is  thick  with  flowers; 

Primrose  pure,  that  cometh  alone; 

Daisies  quaint,  with  savour  none, 

But  golden  eyes  of  great  delight. 

That  all  men  love,  they  be  so  bright ; 

And,  cold  in  grassy  cloister  set, 

Many  a  maiden  violet; 

The  bramble  flower,  the  scarlet  hepe, 

Hangeth  above  in  sunny  sleep; 

And  all  around  be  knots  and  rows 

Of  tufted  thyme,  and  lips  of  cows; 

Whose  sweet  savour  goeth  about 

The  jocund  bowers,  in  and  out, 

And  dieth  over  all  the  place; 

So  that  there  is  not  any  space 

Of  sun  or  shade,  but  haunted  is 

With  ghosts  of  many  sweetnesses. 

There,  dreading  no  intrusive  stroke 

Of  lifted  axe,  the  lusty  oak 


THE  MESSAGE,  35 

Broad  his  branches  brown  doth  fling, 

And  reignetb,  "  every  inch  a  king:  " 

Him  also  of  that  other  kind 

In  great  plenty  shall  ye  find, 

That  while  the  great  year  goeth  around 

Sheddeth  never  his  leaves  to  ground, 

But  in  himself  his  summer  hath, 

And  oweth  not,  nor  borroweth, 

As  (though  but  rare)  there  be  some  wise 

Good  men,  that  to  themselves  suffice; 

But  in  northern  land  we  see 

Full  few,  and  they  but  stunted  be. 

Of  this  goodly  kind  of  tree. 

The  ever-trembling  birch,  through  all 

Her  hoary  lights  ethereal, 

Doth  twinkle  there,  'twixt  green  and  grey; 

And  of  fruit-trees  is  great  array : 

The  apple  and  the  pear  tree  both, 

Smother'd  o'er  in  creamy  froth 

Of  bubbled  blossoms;  the  green  fig. 

With  leathern  leaves,  and  horny  twig, 

And  gluey  globes  ;  the  juniper, 

That  smelleth  sweet  in  midsummer; 

Nor  peach-tree,  there,  nor  apricot, 

Needeth  either  nail  or  knot ; 

Nor  there  from  churlish  weathers  wince 

The  orange,  lemon,  plum,  and  quince; 

But  under  these,  by  grassy  slopes, 

Hangeth  the  vine  her  leafy  ropes; 

Wild  Proteus  she,  o'  the  wanton  wood. 

That  ever  shifteth  her  merry  mood. 

And,  aye  in  luxury  of  change, 

Loveth  to  revel,  and  dance,  and  range. 

In  leaves,  not  hers,  she  fleeteth  through, 

Hiding  her  large  grape-bunches  blue; 


36  THE  MESSAGE. 

And  here,  o'er  haunts  he  maketh  brown 

With  droppings  from  his  scented  crown, 

Standeth  the  stately  sycamore, 

Lifting  airy  terrace  o'er 

Airy  terrace ; — such  of  yore 

Dusky  masons,  deftly  skill'd 

Mighty  stones  to  pile  and  build, 

Up-hung  in  sumptuous  Babylon, 

For  silken  kings  at  set  of  sun 

To  dally  with  dark  girls;  but  these 

Are  humm'd  about  by  honey  bees, 

And  cicale  all  day  long 

Creek  the  chamber'd  shades  among. 

Far  away,  down  hills  that  seem 

Liquid  (for  the  light  doth  stream 

Through  and  through  them)  like  that  vail 

Of  lucid  mist  Morn  spreadeth  pale 

O'er  Summer's  sallow  forehead,  found 

Somewhere  asleep  on  upland  ground 

Under  the  shade  of  heavy  woods, 

Imaginary  multitudes 

Of  melancholy  olives  waste 

Their  wanness,  smiling  half  effaced 

In  a  smooth  sea  of  slumbrous  glory; 

But  high  on  inland  promontory 

Blandly  the  broad-headed  pine, 

Basking  in  the  blue  divine, 

Drowseth,  drench'd  with  sunny  sky : 

And,  while  the  blue  needle-fly 

Nimbly  pricketh  in  and  out 

The  leaf-broider'd  lawns  about, 

(As  busy  she  as  highborn  dame 

In  shining  silk,  at  tambour  frame), 

The  pomegranate,  flowering  flame, 

Burneth  lone  in  cool  retreats, 


THE  MESSAGE,  yj 

Hidden  from  those  gorgeous  heats 

Where  summer  smoldereth  into  sweets. 

Now,  when  ye  have  this  goodly  wood 

All  roamed  through,  in  gamesome  mood. 

At  morning  tide,  and  thereon  spent 

Large  wealth  of  love  and  wonderment, 

In  honour  due  of  such  full  cheer 

And  lustihood  as  laugheth  here 

The  well-bower'd  grass  about. 

That  windeth  in,  and  windeth  out, 

Under  those  bright  ribandings 

The  red-budded  bramble  flings 

From  branch  to  branch,  still  straying  on 

Softly,  ye  shall  be  ware  anon 

Of  a  fair  garden,  glad  and  great, 

Where  my  Lady,  in  high  state 

Of  beauty,  doth  'twixt  eve  and  noon, 

Under  a  spiritual  moon, 

Visit  full  oft  her  vassal  flowers 

In  silent  and  sweet-scented  hours, 

When  quiet  vast  is  everywhere, 

About  the  blue  benignant  air 

And  the  cool  grass,  a  deep  immense 

Gladness,  an  undisturbed  sense 

Of  goodness  in  the  gather'd  calm 

Of  old  green  woodlands  bathed  in  calm. 

And  bounteous  silence.  .  .   .  O  my  love. 

How  softly  do  the  sweet  hours  move 

About  thy  peaceful  perfectness  ! 

O  hasten,  little  Songs !     O  press 

To  meet  my  Lady,  ye  that  be 

Her  children,  if  she  knew  I  .   .   .   But  she 

Still  lingereth,  and  the  silver  dawn 

Is  silent  on  the  unfooted  lawn. 

Here  all  day  doth  couch  and  sport 


38  THE  MESSAGE. 

Trim  Flora,  with  her  florid  court: 
Roses  that  be  illumined 
With  royal  colour  rich  and  red ; 
Some,  with  bosoms  open  wide, 
Where  the  brown  bee,  undenied, 
Drinketh  deep  of  honey  drops; 
Others,  whose  enamell'd  knops 
Prettily  do  peep  between 
Their  half-bursten  cradles  green ; 
Lordly  lilies,  pale  and  proud; 
And  of  all  flowers  a  great  crowd ; 
Whose  rare-colour'd  kirtles  show 
More  hues  than  of  the  rainy  bow. 
In  sweet  warmth  and  lucid  air 
Nod  they  all  and  whisper,  where 
Lightly  along  each  leafy  lane 
Zephyrus,  with  his  tripping  train, 
Cometh  at  cool  of  even  hour 
To  greet  in  all  her  pomp  and  power 
Queen  Flora,  when  in  mansions  damp 
Of  the  dim  moss  his  spousal  lamp 
Aloof  the  enamour'd  glow-worm  doth 
Softly  kindle;  while  the  moth 
Flitteth;  and,  at  elfin  rites, 
Sprucely  dance  the  little  Sprites 
Under  the  young  moon  all  alone. 
Round  about  King  Oberon. 
But  ye  this  pleasaunce  fair  shall  reach 
Ere  yet  from  off  the  slanted  peach 
The  drops  of  silver  dew  be  slipp'd. 
Or  night-born  buds  be  open-lipp'd, 
There  shall  ye  find,  in  lustrous  shade 
Of  laurels  cool,  an  old  well-head 
That  whelmeth  up  from  under-ground. 
And  falleth  with  a  tinkling  sound 


THE  MESSAGE.  39 

In  a  broad  basin,  builded  there, 

All  rose-porphyry,  smooth  and  fair. 

The  water  is  ever  fresh  and  new. 

As  that  Narcissus  gazed  into, 

When,  for  love  of  his  sweet  self, 

He  fainted  from  the  flowery  shelf, 

Leaving  Echo  all  that  pain ; 

So  that  now  there  doth  remain 

Of  him  that  was  so  fair  and  sweet 

Only  in  some  green  retreat 

A  purple  flower  seldom  found, 

And  of  her  a  hollow  sound 

In  hollow  places.     There  shall  ye 

Pause  as  ye  pass,  and  sing  .  .   "To  thee, 

Water,  our  Master  bade  us  say 

Glad  be  thy  heart,  and  pure  alway ; 

May  thy  full  urn  never  fail ; 

Thee  nor  sun  nor  frost  assail, 

Nor  wild  winter's  wind  molest  thee; 

Never  newt  nor  eft  infest  thee ; 

Taint  nor  trouble  touch  thee  never; 

Heaven  above  thee  smile  for  ever; 

Earth  around  thee  ever  bear 

Beauteous  buds  and  blossoms  rare; 

Far  from  thee  be  all  foul  things, 

Slaves  to  thee  be  all  sweet  springs, 

Because  thou,  of  thy  kindness,  hast 

Shown,  in  blissful  summers  past, 

To  fondest  eyes  have  ever  been,    • 

Sweetest  face  was  ever  seen: 

Therefore  be  blest  for  evermore. " 

But  if,  my  Songs,  ye  would  explore 

This  pleasaunce  all,  there  be  therein 

Delights  so  many,  day  would  win 

His  under-goal  ere  ye  were  forth 


40  THE  MESSAGE. 

Of  your  much  musing  on  the  worth 

That  is  therein,  and  wondrous  grace  ; 

Therefore,  ere  the  sun  down-pace, 

Must  ye  onward,  where  is  spread 

A  fair  terrace  ;  and  overhead 

Thick  trellis  of  the  trembling  vine, 

That  with  leaves  doth  loop  and  twine 

Aery  casements,  whence  the  glance 

Of  whoso  there,  as  in  a  trance, 

Walketh  about  the  whisperous  shade 

Under  that  vaulted  verdure  laid, 

Seeth  far  down,  and  far  away, 

Tower'd  cities,  throng'd  and  gay, 

Blowing  woodlands,  bright  blue  streams 

Sparkling  outward,  yellow  gleams 

Of  waved  corn,  and  sun-burnt  swells 

Of  pasture,  soothed  with  sounds  of  bells 

Sprinkled  in  air,  of  various  tone. 

From  little  hillside  chapel i  lone, 

And  peaceful  flocks  that  stray  and  pass 

Down  endless  lengths  of  lowland  grass. 

And,  certes,  I  will  boldly  say 

Of  this  fair  place,  let  mock  who  may, 

That  of  joy  the  quintessence 

Hath  never  slept  about  the  sense 

Of  mortal  man  that  is  to  die 

With  fulness  sweet  as  that  which  I 

Deep  in  my  solaced  heart  have  known, 

Whilom  walking,  not  alone, 

Here  in  summer  morns  and  eves, 

When  shadowy  showers  of  flittering  leaves 

Fell,  shaken  thick  from  many  a  rout 

Of  little  birds  that  fast  flew  out 

Above  us ;  interruption  sweet 

To  converse,  felt  the  more  complete 


THE  MESSAGE. 

For  the  interposM  pauses 

Born  of  all  such  innocent  causes. 


High  on  the  happy  lawn  above 
Standeth  the  dwelling  of  my  love. 
Fair  white  all  the  mansion  seemeth, 
Save  where  in  green  shadow  dreameth 
The  broad  blossom-buttress'd  roof, 
Or  where  the  many-colour'd  woof 
Of  honeysuckle  and  creeping  flowers, 
Visibly  from  vernal  showers 
"Winning  length,  hath  broider'd  all 
With  braided  buds  the  southern  wall. 
Therein  many  windows  be ; 
And  every  window  fair  to  see, 
O'er-canopied  with  hangings  bright, 
For  shelter  fresh  from  summer  light.* 
And  underneath,  in  urns  and  pots, 
Sweet-smelling  basil,  and  red  knots 
Of  roses  ripe  ;  for  every  casement 
Is  balconied  about  at  basement, 
A  space  where  three  or  four  may  sit 
At  interchange  of  song  or  wit. 
In  the  low  amber  evening  hours, 
Overlooking  lawns  and  flowers. 
In  the  hall,  which  is  beneath, 
A  fountain  springeth  and  echoeth, 
Blown  by  a  sad-looking  Nymph, 
Ravisht  from  her  native  lymph 
And  mossy  grot,  in  days  of  old ; 
And  in  marble  mute  and  cold 
Here  for  ever  must  she  dwell 
Uncompanion'd,  by  the  spell 
Of  a  stern  old  sculptor  caught ; 


42  THE  MESSAGE, 

For,  aye  since  then,  the  hand  that  wrought 
This  stony  charm  her  limbs  upon 
May  not  undo  it.     Years  are  gone, 
And  still  about  her  doth  she  stare, 
Amazed  however  she  came  there. 


But  ye,  since  ye  be  free  to  rove 

This  mansion  through,  to  floors  above 

Up  the  majestic  marble  stair 

Pass  with  still  steps,  unseen,  to  where 

Soon  shall  ye  find,  in  sequel  long, 

Twelve  great  chambers :  some  be  hung 

With  arras  quaint,  that  doth  portray 

Hounds  that  hold  the  hart  at  bay 

In  good  green  wood,  and  hunters  bold, 

And  dames  aclad  in  green  and  gold  ; 

And  evermore  their  horns  be  wound, 

And  evermore  there  cometh  no  sound  : 

Others  in  glowing  fresco  tell 

Great  Caesar's  tale,  and  how  he  fell, 

Pierced  through  and  through;  with  many  a  story 

Of  ancient  kings  that  be  in  glory, 

And  high-renownM  heroes  old  ; 

Sir  Tristram,  with  his  harp  of  gold. 

That  rashly  drain'd  the  philtre  brew'd 

By  the  witch  Queen  for  fair  Isoud  ; 

Roland  in  Roncesvalles  slain; 

And  bold  Sir  Ogier  the  Dane; 

Huon  of  Bordeaux,  love's  true  star; 

Saladin  with  his  scimitar; 

The  Red-beard  Kaiser,  sleeping  still 

Hid  in  the  heart  of  Salzburg  Hill ; 

David  that  danceth  round  the  ark ; 

And  Charlemagne ;  ye  there  may  mark. 


THE  MESSAGE,  43 

But,  O  my  Songs,  more  softly  now, 

More  softly  move  !     Breathe  low,  breathe  low  ! 

For,  by  my  heart's  most  tender  fear, 

I  know  that  ye  must  now  be  near 

The  place  where,  nesting  meek  and  warm, 

Rosy  cheek  on  snowy  arm, 

With  loos'd  hair  and  lidded  eye 

Dreaming  doth  my  Lady  lie: 

And  all  around  the  restful  air 

Is  silent,  sweet,  and  pure,  as  where 

Fond  hands  some  holy  taper  trim, 

Peaceful  in  sacred  precincts  dim. 

Now,  that  my  spirit,  though  far  away 

From  her  loved  beauty,  night  and  day 

Ever  in  unreleased  pine 

Seeking,  on  many  a  mused  line, 

To  flow  toward  her,  purely  may 

Her  pureness  praise, — humbly  I  pray 

Of  all  good  things  that  wait  upon 

The  mind  that  maketh  devotion 

To  what  is  fair  (since  such  do  lean 

O'er  mortal  spirits  oft  unseen 

Out  of  the  deep  and  starry  night, 

Or  steal  on  beams  of  morning  light, 

Or  breath  of  buds,  or  sound  of  song 

Remember'd,  to  keep  safe  from  wrong, 

And  wretchedness,  and  self-mistrust, 

Whatever  warreth  in  this  dust 

Against  oblivion),  that  their  grace 

May  from  my  spirit  purge  and  chase 

All  that  is  in  it  not  sweet  and  pure; 

So  may  I  look  with  insight  sure 

Into  myself,  and  favour  find 

To  make  a  mirror  within  my  mind. 

Whereon,  unsoil'd  of  any  taint 


44  THE  MESSAGE. 

Of  sinful  thought,  my  most  sweet  saint 
Her  fairness  may  from  far  let  fall 
In  a  deep  peace  perpetual. 

The  memory  of  her  is  mellow  light 

In  darkness,  mingling  something  bright 

With  all  things;  like  a  summer  night. 

The  presence  of  her  is  young  sunrise, 
That  gladdenelh,  and,  in  wondrous  wise, 
Glorifieth,  the  earth  and  skies: 

Her  spirit  is  tender  and  bright  as  dew 
Of  May-morn  fresh,  when  stars  be  few : 
Her  heart  is  harmless,  simple,  and  true, 

And  blithe,  and  sweet,  as  bird  in  bower, 
That  sifigeth  alone  from  hour  to  hour: 
Her  face  is  fair  as  April  flower : 

Her  voice  is  fresh  as  bubbling  bound 
Of  silver  stream,  in  land  new  found, 
That  maketh  ever  a  pleasant  sound 

To  the  soul  of  a  thirsty  traveller: 
Her  laugh  is  light  as  grasshopper: 
Her  breath  is  sweet  as  midsummer: 

Her  hair  is  a  marvellous  living  thing 

With  a  will  of  its  own:  the  little  locks  fling 

Showers  of  brown  gold,  gambolling 

Over  the  ever-fleeting  shade 

About  her  shoulder  and  sweet  throat  stray'd, 

With  delicate  odours  underlaid: 


THE  MESSAGE.  45 

Like  calm  midsummer  cloud,  nor  less 
Clothed  with  sweet  light  and  silentness, 
She  in  her  gracious  movement  is: 

Noble  withal,  and  free  from  fear 

As  heart  of  eagle,  and  high,  and  near 

To  heaven  in  all  her  ways :  of  cheer 

Gentle,  and  meek,  from  harshness  free 
As  heart  of  dove:  nor  chideth  she 
Things  ill,  but  knovveth  not  that  they  be: 

All  clear  as  waters  clean  that  run 

Through  shadow  sweet,  and  through  sweet  sun, 

Her  pure  thoughts  are:  scorn  hath  she  none: 

But  in  my  Lady's  perfect  nature 
All  is  sincere,  and  of  sweet  feature. 
This  earth  hath  none  such  other  creature. 

Rise,  little  Songs,  on  nimble  wing  ! 
Arise  !  arise  !  as  larks  do  sing 
Lost  in  that  heaven  of  light  they  love, 
So  rise,  so  lose  yourselves  above 
My  darkness,  in  the  perfect  light 
Of  her  that  is  so  pure  and  bright ! 
Rise,  little  Songs  !  with  lusty  cheer       ^ 

Rise  up  to  greet  my  Lady  dear. 
Be  bold,  and  say  to  her  with  pride, — 
**  We  are  the  souls  of  loves  that  died ; 
Whose  sweetness  is  hope  sorrow-fed, 
Whose  tendernesses  tears  unshed ; 
And  we  are  essences  that  rise 
From  passions  burn'd  in  sacrifice; 


46  THE  MESSAGE. 

The  youngest  and  bright-eyM  heirs 

Of  blind  unbeautiful  despairs; 

Voiced  resignations,  once  dumb  wrongs." 

Then,  if  she  smile  on  you,  my  Songs, 

Say,  as  I  bid  you,  word  for  word, 

"  Lady  of  him  that  is  our  lord, 

We  from  his  heart,  where  we  were  born, 

Shelter'd,  and  shut  from  shame  r.nd  scorn, 

Now  at  his  bidding  (well-a-day 

For  him,  and  us  !)  being  fled  away, 

Never  again  may  there  abide, 

Never  return,  and,  undenied, 

Creep  in,  and  fold  our  wings,  and  rest 

At  peace  in  our  abandon'd  nest. 

Wherefore,  dear  mistress,  prithee  take 

(By  true  love  sent,  for  true  love's  sake) 

To  thy  sweet  heart,  and  spirit  pure. 

Us,  that  must  else  but  ill  endure 

The  scorns  of  time,  and  haply  fare 

Homeless  as  birds  in  winter  are." 

But  if  that,  on  your  way  to  greet 
My  gracious  Lady,  ye  should  meet 
Haply  elsewhere  with  other  folk 
Who  may  ask  ye  in  scorn  or  joke, — 
"  Pray  you  now,  little  Songs,  declare 
,Who  is  that  lady  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Whereof  this  singer  that  sent  you  sings. 
As  certainly  sweeter  than  all  sweet  things  ?  " 
See  that  ye  answer  not.  Songs,  but  deep 
In  your  secretest  hearts  my  secret  keep; 
Lest  the  world,  that  loveth  me  not,  should  tell 
The  name  of  the  Lady  I  love  so  well. 


SEA-SIDE  ELEGIACS.  47 


SEA-SIDE  ELEGIACS. 

Ever  my  heart    beateth   high   and  the   blood   in   me 
danceth  delighted, 
When,  in  the  wind  on  the  wharf,  keen  from  the  edge 
of  the  land, 
Watching  the  white-winged  black-bodied  ships,  as  they 
rise  uninvited 
Over  the  violet-dark  wall  o'  the  waters,  I  stand. 
Wondrous  with  life  that  is  in  them,  aware  of  the  waters 
and  weathers. 
They  to  the  populous  port  pass  with  a  will  of  their 
own. 
Merrily  singeth    the    mariner  there,   as  the    cable    he 
tethers 
Tight  to  the  huge  iron  ring,  hung  in  the  green  gluey 
stone. 
Swept  with  the  spray  is  the  pavement  above ;  and  the 
sea-wind  is  salt  there. 
Down  on  the  causeys  all  day,  humming,  the  mer- 
chants unlade 
Marvellous     merchandise,    while     the     sea -engines    of 
burthen,  at  halt  there 
Shoulder  each  other,  and   loll,   lazy   in   shine   or  in 
shade. 
O  for   the   wing   o'  the   grey  sea-eagle,   that  far   away 
inland 
Croucheth  in  cave  or  in  creek,  waiting  the  wind  on 
the  height ! 
When   night   cometh,    the    great    north-wind,    blowing 
bleak  over  Finland, 
Leapeth,  and,  lifting  aloft,  beareth  him  into  the  night. 
O  for  the  wing  o'  the  bird  !  and  O  for  the  wind  o'  the 
ocean  ! 


48  SEA-SIDE  ELEGIACS, 

O  for  the  far-away  lands  !  O  for  the  faces  unfound  I 
Would  I  were  hence  !  for  my  spirit  is  fill'd  with  a  mighty 
emotion. 
Why  must  the  spirit,  though  wing'd,  thus  to  the  body 
be  bound  ? 
Ah,  but  my  heart  sinketh  low,  and  the  rapturous  vein  is 
arrested, 
When,  at  the  mid  o'  the  night,  high  on  the  shadowy 
land, 
Mournfully  watching  the  ghost-white  waves,  livid-lipp'd, 
hollow-breasted. 
Sob  over  shingle  and  shell,  here  with  my  sorrow  I 
stand.  - 
Weary  of  woe  that  is  in  them,  fatigued  by  the  violent 
waathers, 
Feebly  they  tumble  and  toss,  sadly  they  murmur  and 
moan, 
Coldly  the  moon  looketh  down  through  the  wan-rolling 
vapour  she  gathers 
Silently,  cloud  after  cloud,  round  her  companionless 
throne. 
Dark  up  above  is  the  wharf;  and  the  harbour.     The 
night-wind  alone  there 
Goeth  about  in  the  night,  humming  a  horrible  song. 
Black  misshapen    bulks,  coil'd    cumbrous    things,  over 
thrown  there. 
Seem  as,  in  sullen  dismay,  silently  suffering  wrong. 
O  for  the  wing  o'  the  grey  sea-eagle,  roamer  of  heaven ! 
Him  doth   the   wind  o'   the  night    bear    through  the 
night  on  its  breast. 
Over  the  howling  ocean,  and  unto  his  ancient  haven, 
Far  in  the  land  that  he  loves  finding  the  realms  of  his 
rest. 
O  for  the  wing  o'  the  bird !   and  O  for  the  wind  o'  the 
Ocean ! 


THE  SHORE.  49 

O  for  the  lands  that  are  left !  O  for  the  faces  of  eld ! 
Would  I  were  hence  !  for  my  spirit  is  fiU'd  with  a  mourn- 
ful emotion. 

Why  must  the  spirit,  though  wing'd,  still  by  the  body 
be  held  ? 


THE  SHORE. 

Can  it  be  women  that  walk  in  the  sea-mist,  under  the 
cliflFs  there 
Which  the  unsatisfied  surge  sucks  with  importunate 
lip  ? 
There,  where  out  from  the  sand-chok'd  anchors,  on  to 
the  skiffs  there. 
Twinkle  the  slippery  ropes,  swinging  adip  and  adrip  ? 
All  the  place  in  a  lurid,  glimmering,  emerald  glory, 
Glares   like  a  Titan  world  come  back  under  heaven 
again : 
Yonder,  aloof  are  the  steeps  of  the  sea-kings,  famous  in 
story  ; 
But  who  are  they  on   the  beach?    they  are  neither 
women  nor  men. 
^Vho  knows,  are  they  the  land's,  or  the  water's,  living 
creatures  ? 
Born  of  the  boiling  sea?  nurst  in  the  seething  storms? 
With  their  woman's  hair  dishevell'd  over  their  stern  male 
features. 
Striding,  bare  to  the  knee;  magnified  maritime  forms  ! 
They  may  be  the  mothers  and  wives,  they  may  be  the 
sisters  and  daughters 

710 


so  THE  SHORE. 

Of  men  on  the  dark  mid-seas,  alone  in  those  black 
coil'd  hulls, 
That  toil  'neath  yon  white  cloud,  whence  the  moon  will 
rise  o'er  the  waters 
To-night,   with  her   face  on  fire,   if  the  wind  in  the 
evening  lulls. 
But  they  may  be  merely  visions,  such  as  only  sick  men 
witness, 
(Sitting  as  I  sit  here,  fiU'd  with  a  wild  regret), 
Framed  from  the  sea's  misshapen  spume  with  a  horrible 
fitness 
To  the  winds  in  which  they  walk,  and  the  surges  by 
which  they  are  wet : — 
Salamanders,    sea- wolves,    witches,    warlocks;     marine 
monsters 
Which  the  dying  seaman  beholds,  when  the  rats  are 
swimming  away, 
And  an  Indian  wind  'gins  hiss  from  an  unknown  isle, 
and  alone  stirs 
The  broken  cloud  which  burns  on   the  verge  of  the 
dead,  red  day. 
I  know  not.     All  in  my  mind  is  confused;   nor  can  I 
dissever 
The  mould  of  the  visible  world  from  the  shape  of  my 
thought  in  me. 
The  Inward  and  Outward  are  fused :  and,  through  them, 
murmur  for  ever 
The  sorrow  whose  sound  is  the  wind,  and  the  roar  of 
the  limitless  sea. 


THE  VAMPIRE.  51 

THE  VAMPIRE. 


I  FOUND  a  corpse,  with  glittering  hair, 

Of  a  woman  whose  face,  tho'  dead, 
The  white  death  in  it  had  left  still  fair, 

Too  fair  for  an  earthly  bed  ! 
So  I  loosen'd  each  fold  of  her  bright  curls,  roll'd 
From  forehead  to  foot  in  a  gush  of  red  gold, 

And  kiss'd  her  lips  till  her  lips  were  red, 
And  warm  and  light  on  her  eyelids  white 
I  breath'd,  and  press'd  unto  mine  her  breast, 

Till  the  blue  eyes  oped,  and  the  breast  grew  warm. 
And  this  woman,  behold  !  arose  up  bold, 

And,  lifelike  lifting  a  wilful  arm, 
With  steady  feet  from  the  winding  sheet 

Stepp'd  forth  to  a  mutter'd  charm. 


rr. 

And  now  beside  me,  whatever  betide  me, 

This  woman  is,  night  and  day. 
For  she  cleaves  to  me  so,  that,  wherever  I  go 

She  is  with  me  the  whole  of  the  way. 
And  her  eyes  are  so  bright  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 

That  they  keep  me  awake  with  dread ; 
While  my  life-blood  pales  in  my  veins,  and  fails, 

Because  her  red  lips  are  so  red 
That  I  fear  'tis  my  heart  she  must  eat  for  her  food  ; 

And  it  makes  my  whole  flesh  creep 
To  think  she  is  drinking  and  draining  my  blood, 

Unawares,  if  I  chance  to  sleep. 


52  A  REMONSTRANCE. 


It  were  better  for  me,  ere  I  came  nigh  her, — 

This  corpse, — ere  I  looked  upon  her, — 
Had  they  burn'd  my  body  in  penal  fire 

With  a  sorcerer's  dishonour. 
For,  when  the  devil  hath  made  his  lair 

In  the  living  eyes  of  a  dear  dead  woman, 
(To  bind  a  man's  strength  by  her  golden  hair, 

And  break  his  heart,  if  his  heart  be  human). 
Is  there  any  penance,  or  any  prayer, 

That  may  save  the  sinner  whose  soul  he  tries 
To  catch  in  the  curse  of  the  constant  stare 

Of  those  heartbreaking  bewildering  eyes, — 
Comfortless,  cavernous  glowworms  that  glare 

From  the  gaping  grave  where  a  dead  hope  lies? 
It  is  more  than  the  soul  of  a  man  may  bear. 

For  the  misery  worst  of  all  miseries 
Is  Desire  eternally  feeding  Despair 

On  the  flesh,  or  the  blood,  that  forever  supplies 
Life  more  than  enough, to  keep  fresh  in  repair 

The  death  ever  dying,  which  yet  never  dies. 


A  REMONSTRANCE. 

I. 

Deem,  if  thou  wilt,  that  I  am  all,  and  worse 
Than  all,  they  bid  thee  deem  that  I  must  be. 

But,  ah !  wilt  thou  desert  love's  universe, 
Deserting  me? 


A  REMONSTRANCE.  53 


II. 


Not  for  my  sake,  be  mine  unworth  forgiven, 
But  for  thine  own.     Since  I,  despite  my  dearth 

Of  all  that  made  thee,  what  thou  art,  my  Heaven, 
Am  still  thine  Earth ; 


III. 


Still  thy  love's  only  habitable  star; 

"Whose  element  engender'd,  and  embosoms 
All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  desires,  which  are 

Love's  roots  and  blossoms. 


IV. 


Who  will  hold  dear  the  ashes  of  the  days     ^ 
Burn'd  out  on  altars  deem'd  no  more  divine  ? 

Rests  there  of  thy  soul's  wealth  enough  to  raise 
A  new  god's  shrine  ? 


Who  will  forgive  thy  cheek  its  faded  bloom, 

Save  he  whose  kisses  that  blanch'd  rose  hath  fed 

Thine  eyes,  the  stain  of  tears— save  he  for  whom 
Those  tears  were  shed  ? 

VI. 

Despite  the  blemisht  beauty  of  thy  brow, 

Thou  would' st  be  lonely  could'st  thou  love  again  ; 

For  love  renews  the  beautiful.  But  thou 
Hast  only  pain. 


54  A  REMONSTRANCE, 


VII. 


How  wilt  thou  bear  from  pity  to  implore 

What  once  thy  power  from  rapture  could  command? 
How  wilt  thou  stretch — who  wast  a  Queen  of  yore — 

A  suppliant's  hand?— 


VIII. 


Even  of  thy  pride  be  poor  enough  to  ask 
Love's  purchased  shelter,  charitably  chill, 

Yet  hast  thou  strength  to  recommence  the  task 
Of  pardoning  still  ? 


For  who  will  prize  in  thee  love's  loss  of  all 

Love  hath  to  give  save  pardon  for  love  wrong'd, 

Unless  that  pardon  be,  whate'er  befall 
Love's  pride,  prolong'd  ? 


And  thou — to  whom  demanding  all  that  I 

Can  claim  no  more,  wilt  thou  henceforth  extend 

Forgiveness  on  forgiveness,  with  that  sigh 
Which  shuns  the  end  ? 


Where  wilt  thou  find  the  unworthier  lips  than  mine 
To  plead  for  pardon  with  a  prayer  more  lowly  ? 

To  whom  else,  pardoning  much,  become  divine 
By  pardoning  w  holly  ? — 


A  REMONSTRANCE,  55 


XII. 

Ah,  if  thy  heart  can  pardon  yet,  why  yet 
Should  not  its  latest  pardon  be  for  me  ? 

And,  if  thou  wili  not  pardon,  canst  thou  set 
Thy  future  free 


From  the  unpardon'd  past,  and  so  forget  me  ? 

If  not, — forgive  me  for  thine  own  sad  sake; 
Else,  having  left  me,  thou  would'st  still  regret  me, 

And  still  would'st  take 


XIV. 

Revenge  for  that  regret  on  thine  own  bosom, 
Revenge  on  others  for  the  failure,  found 

In  them,  to  rear  transplanted  love  to  blossom 
On  blighted  ground. 

XV. 

As  lion,  tho'  by  lion  wounded,  still 

Doth  miss  the  boisterous  pastime  of  his  kind. 
Or  wild  sea-eagle,  though  with  broken  quill, 

Clipt,  and  confined. 


And  fed  on  dainty  fare  among  the  doves, 

Doth  miss  the  stormy  sea-wind  and  the  brine, 

So  would'st  thou  miss,  amid  all  worthier  loves, 
The  unworth  of  mine. 


56  MEETING  AGAIN. 


XVII. 


Then,  if  the  flush  of  love's  first  faith  be  wan, 
And  thou  wilt  love  again,  again  love  me, 

For  what  I  am — no  Saint,  but  still  a  man 
That  worships  thee. 


MEETING  AGAIN. 


Yes,  I  remember  the  white  rose.     And,  since  then,  the 

young  ivy  has  grown, 
From  your  window  we  could  not  reach  it,  and  now  it  is 

over  the  stone. 
It  was  yonder  that  I  first  met  you.    Well,  time  hath  his 

own  stern  cures  ! 
And  Alice's  eyes  are  deeper,  and  her  hair  has  grown  like 

yours. 


Your  voice,  too, — that  is  alter'd.     But  there's  something 

here  amiss 
When  it  is  not  well  to  speak  kindly.     And  the  olives  are 

ripe,  by  this. 
I  had  fancied,  and  fear'd  .  .   .  but  it  matters  not !     That 

was  my  fault,  I  suppose. 
Good-night !  it  is  night  so  soon  now.     Look  there,  you 

have  dropp'd  your  rose. 


EARTH'S  HA  VINGS.  57 


Nay,  I  have  one  that  is  wither'd,  and  dearer  to  me.     I 

came 
To  say  good-night,  little  Alice.     She  does  not  remember 

my  name  ! 
It  is  but  the  heat  that  is  making  my  head  and  my  heart 

ache  so. 
I  never  was  strong  in  the  old  time,  as  the  others  were, 

you  know. 


Is  it  late?  is  it  late,   Irene?     The  old  name  sounds  so 

dear  ! 
'Tis  the  last  time  I  shall  use  it.     You  need  show  neither 

anger  nor  fear. 
Good-night,  good-night,  little  Alice  !     Nay,  lady,  I  need 

no  light. 
I  remember  the  road,  and  I  noticed  the  road  is  unalter'd. 

Good-night  ! 


EARTH'S  HAVINGS. 
(Song.) 

Weary  the  cloud  falleth  out  of  the  sky, 

Dreary  the  leaf  lieth  low. 
All  things  must  come  to  the  earth  by-and-by, 

Out  of  which  all  things  grow. 


58  EARTH'S  HAVINGS. 

Let  the  wild  wind  laugh  and  whistle 

Aloof  in  the  lonesome  wood  : 
In  our  garden  let  the  thistle 

Start  where  the  rose-tree  stood  : 
Let  the  rotting  moss  fall  rotten 

With  the  rain-drops  from  the  eaves: 
Let  the  dead  past  lie  forgotten 

In  his  grave  with  the  yellow  leaves. 


Weary  the  cloud  falleth  out  of  the  sky, 

Dreary  the  leaf  lieth  low. 
All  things  must  come  to  the  earth  by-and  by, 

Out  of  which  all  things  grow. 


And  again  the  hawthorn  pale 

Shall  blossom  sweet  i'  the  Spring  ; 
And  again  the  nightingale 

In  the  deep  blue  nights  shall  sing  : 
And  seas  of  the  wind  shall  wave 

In  the  light  of  the  golden  grain  : 
But  the  love  that  is  gone  to  his  grave 

Shall  never  return  again. 


Weary  the  cloud  falleth  out  of  the  sky, 

Dreary  the  leaf  lieth  low 
All  things  must  come  to  the  earth  by-and-by, 

Out  of  which  all  things  grow. 


THE  LAST  FAREWELL,  59 

THE  LAST  FAREWELL. 


Away  !  away  !  in  those  wild  eyes 
Repress  the  tears  whose  right  is  o'er 

To  flow  for  me.     Wrung  hands,  and  sighs, 
And  self-rebukes  can  not  restore 
What  is  no  more. 


II. 

Vain  are  all  words,  all  weepings  vain  ! 

We  met  too  soon :  we  part  too  late. 
Still  wear,  as  best  thou  can'st,  the  chain 

Thine  own  hands  forged  about  thy  fate, 
Who  could'st  hot  wait. 


Be  happy  !  Haunt  where  music  plays, 
And  find  no  pain  in  music's  tone. 

Be  fair  !  Nor  blush  when  others  praise 
That  beauty,  scarcely  now  thine  own. 
What's  done  is  done. 


Take,  if  thou  can'st,  from  off  thy  youth 
The  mark  of  mine,  which  burns  there  yet. 

Take  from  that  unremembering  mouth 
The  seal  which  there  mine  own  hath  set. 
And  so,  forget, 


6o  THE  LAST  FA  RE  WELL. 


Tho'  unforgot !     It  is  thy  doom 

To  bear  henceforth  the  heavy  weight 

Of  my  forgiveness  to  the  tomb. 
I  cannot  save  thee  from  thy  fate; 
Nor  reinstate 


Thy  ruin'd  pride,  till  in  my  grave 
Love's  broken  bond  shall  buried  be. 

And  I,  that  would  have  died  to  save 
Thy  heart's  lost  freedom,  may  not  free 
This  load  from  thee. 


Farewell,  till  life's  mistake  is  over ! 

When  downward  doth  thy  Genius  turn 
His  wasted  torch,  and  half  uncover 

The  date  upon  the  funeral  urn, 
I  will  return. 


Then  in  the  dark,  the  doubt,  the  fear. 
Amid  the  Spirits  come  to  take  thee, 

Shall  mine  to  thine  again  be  near, 

And  life's  forgiveness  mine  shall  make  thee, 
When  death  doth  wake  thee. 


THE  DESERTED  PALACE. 
THE  LAST  ASSURANCE. 


Fear  me  no  more.     The  last  wild  words  are  spoken. 
What  heart  have  I,  who  worship'd  once,  to  blame 
thee? 
Never  shall  word  or  deed  of  mine  betoken 
The  bond  'twixt  thee  and  me  which  thou  hast  broken. 
In  the  lone  years  to  come  my  lips  shall  name  thee 
Never,  child,  never ! 


And,  if  unprized  applause,  or  scorned  aspersion 

Should  waft  mine  own  name  to  thine  ears  again. 
Know  I  have  triumph'd, — not  by  thine  exertion. 
Or  fail'd, — but  not  from  thy  forgiven  desertion. 
For  every  link  is  lost  between  us  twain, 
Forever,  child,  forever  I 


THE  DESERTED  PALACE. 

I. 

Broken  are  the  Palace  windows, 

Rotting  is  the  Palace  floor. 
And  the  damp  wind  thro'  the  arras 

Sighs,  and  swings  the  creaking  door. 
But  it  only  starts  the  white  owl 

Perch'd  upon  a  monarch's  throne, 
And  the  hungry  rat  that's  gnawing 

Harpst rings  tuneless  every  one. 


62  THE  BURT  ED  HEART, 


Dare  you  linger  here  at  nightfall, 

When  the  horned  owls  do  shout, 
And  the  bat,  the  newt,  the  viper, 

And  the  dead  men's  ghosts  come  out  ? 
Peep  not,  curious  fool !  nor  enter 

Here  where  nobler  things  have  been. 
Lest  you  find  a  Phantom,  sitting 

Throned  where  sat,  long  since,  a  Queen. 


THE  BURIED  HEART. 

This  heart,  you  would  not  have, 
1  laid  up  in  a  grave 
Of  song  :  with  love  enwound  it, 
And  set  wild  fancies  blowing  round  it. 

Then  I  to  others  gave  it ; 
Because  you  would  not  have  it. 

"  See  you  keep  it  well,"  I  said, 
"  This  heart's  sleeping — is  not  dead — 
But  will  wake  some  future  day. 
Keep  and  guard  it  while  you  may." 

All  great  Sorrows, — sceptred  some. 
With  gold  crowns  upon  their  heads, 
Others  that  bare-footed  roam. 
Sadly  telling  cypress  beads. 


THE  BURIED  HEART.  63 

Pilgrims  with  no  settled  home, 
Poorly  clad  in  Palmer's  weeds, 
These  from  dismal  dongeons  come, 
Faint  and  wan  for  want  of  food, 
Those  by  many  a  bitter  dart 
From  lost  battlefields  pursued, 
— Each  one  clad  in  his  own  mood 
Each  one  claiming  his  own  part,— 
A  forlorn  and  famisht  brood, — 
Came  to  take  my  heart. 

Then,  in  holy  ground  they  set  it, 
With  melodious  weepings  wet  it. 
And  revered  it,  as  they  found  it, 
With  wild  fancies  blowing  round  it. 

And  this  heart  (you  would  not  have) 
Being  not  dead,  though  in  the  grave, 
Work'd  miracles  and  marvels  strange, 
And  heal'd  many  maladies : 
Giving  sight  to  seal'd-up  eyes, 
And  legs  to  lame  men  sick  for  change. 

The  fame  of  it  grew  great  and  greater. 
Then  did  you  bethink  you,  later, 
••  How  hath  this  heart,  I  would  not  take, 
— This  weak  heart,  a  child  might  break — 
Such  glory  gotten  ?     Me  he  gave  it  : 
Mine  this  heart,  and  I  will  have  it." 

Ah,  too  late  !    For  crowds  exclaim'd  ^ 
"  Ours  'tis  now  :  and  hath  been  claim'd. 
Moreover,  where  it  lies,  the  spot 
Is  holy  ground  :  so  enter  not 


64  HOW  THESE  SONGS  WERE  MADE. 

None  but  men  of  mournful  mind — 
Men  to  darken'd  days  resign'd ; 
Equal  scorn  of  Saint  and  Devil ; 
Poor  and  outcast ;  halt  and  blind ; 
Exiles  from  Life's  golden  revel ; 
Gnavi'ing  at  the  bitter  rind 
Of  old  griefs  ;  or  else,  confined 
In  proud  cares,  to  serve  and  grind — 
May  enter:  whom  this  heart  shall  cure. 
But  go  thou  by :  thou  art  not  poor : 
Nor  defrauded  of  thy  lot. 
Bless  thyself:  but  enter  not  I  " 


HOW  THESE  SONGS  WERE  MADE. 


I  SAT  lovi^  down,  at  midnight,  in  a  vale 
Mysterious  with  the  silende  of  blue  pines: 

White-cloven  by  a  snaky  river- tail, 

Uncoil'd  from  tangled  wefts  of  silver  twines. 


Out  of  a  crumbling  castle,  on  a  spike 

Of  splinter'd  rock,  a  mile  of  changeless  shade 

Gorged  half  the  landscape.     Down  a  dismal  dyke 
Of  black  hills  the  sluiced  moonbeams  stream'd,  and 
staid. 


THE  PORTRAIT.  65 


I  pluck'd  blue  mugwort,  livid  mandrakes,  balls 
Of  blossom'd  nightshade,  heads  of  hemlock,  long 

White  grasses,  grown  by  mountain  pedestals, 
To  make  ingredients  fit,  for  many  a  song 


Of  fragrant  sadness, — to  embalm  the  Past — 
The  corpse-cold  Past — that  it  should  not  decay; 

But  in  dark  vaults  of  Memory,  to  the  last, 
Endure  unchanged :  for  in  some  future  day 


I  will  bring  my  new  love  to  look  at  it 
(Laying  aside  her  gay  robes  for  a  moment) 

That,  seeing  what  love  came  to,  she  may  sit 

Silent  awhile,  and  muse,  but  make  no  comment. 


THE   PORTRAIT. 

The  man  wh  0  told  this  tale  is  not 

Either  you,  or  I,  good  friend; 
Who  may  therefore,  glad  of  our  better  lot, 

Hear  his  story  told  to  the  end. 

I. 

Midnight  past!    Not  a  sound  of  aught 

Thro'  the  silent  house,  but  the  wind  at  his  prayers. 

I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  upstairs. 

711 


66  THE  PORTRAIT, 


II. 

A  night  of  tears !  for  the  gusty  rain 

Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  dripping  yet; 

And  the  moon  look'd  forth,  as  tho'  in  pain. 
With  her  face  all  white  and  wet : 


III. 

Nobody  with  me,  my  watch  to  keep, 

But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  love: 

And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 


IV. 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 

All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss  beside, 

But  the  good  young  Priest  with  the  Raphael-face 
Who  confess'd  her  when  she  died. 


That  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle  nerve. 

And  my  grief  had  moved  him  beyond  controul ; 

For  his  lip  grew  white,  as  I  could  observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 


I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone : 

I  thought  of  the  pleasant  days  of  yore : 

I  said  '*  the  staff  of  my  life  is  gone: 
The  woman  I  love  is  no  more. 


THE  PORTRAIT,  67 


"  Gem-clasp'd,  on  her  bosom  my  portrait  lies, 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used  to  wear- 
It  is  steep'd  in  the  light  of  her  loving  eyes, 
And  the  sweets  of  her  bosom  and  hair." 


And  I  said—**  the  thing  is  precious  to  me: 

They  will  bury  her  soon  in  the  churchyard  clay: 

It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be, 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 


I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame, 

And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creak'd  for  fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 


X. 

The  moon  shone  over  her  winding  sheet. 

There,  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven  bed : 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 

And  seven  about  her  head. 


XI. 

As  I  stretch'd  my  hand,  I  held  my  breath ; 

I  turn'd,  as  I  drew  the  curtains  apart : 
I  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death : 

I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart. 


68  THE  PORTRAIT. 


I  thought,  at  first,  as  my  touch  fell  there, 
It  had  warm'd  that  heart  to  life,  with  love; 

For  the  thing  I  touch'd  was  warm,  I  swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 


Twas  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was  moving  slow 
O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead, — from  the  other  side ; 

And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my  brow, 
"  Who  is  robbing  the  corpse?  "  I  cried. 

XIV. 

Opposite  me,  by  the  tapers'  light. 

The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse,  and  all  as  white, 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 


What  do  you  here,  my  friend  ?  "  .   .  .   The  man 
Look'd  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the  dead. 
There  is  a  portrait  here  .  .   .  "  he  began; 
"There  is.     It  is  mine,"  I  said. 


Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  "yours,  no  doubt, 
The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  ago. 

When  this  suffering  angel  took  that  out. 
And  placed  mine  there,  I  know." 


THE  PORTRAIT,  69 

XVII. 

This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,"  said  I. 
"A  month  ago,"  said  my  friend  to  me: 
And  in  your  throat,"  I  groan 'd,  "you  lie  !  " 
He  answer 'd  .  .  .   "let  us  see," 


"  Enough  !  "  I  return'd,  '•  let  the  dead  decide 
And  whose  soever  the  portrait  prove, 

His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried, 
Where  Death  is  arraign'd  by  Love." 


We  found  the  portrait,  there  in  its  place : 
We  open'd  it  by  the  tapers'  shine: 

The  gems  were  all  unchanged :  the  face 
Was— neither  his  nor  mine. 


XX. 

One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  least ! 
The  portrait  is  not  ours,"  I  cried, 
'But  our  friend's,  the  Raphael-faced  young  Priest, 
Who  confess'd  her  when  she  died." 


70  GOING  BACK  AGAIN. 

GOING  BACK  AGAIN. 


I. 

I  dream'd  that  I  walk'd  in  Italy, 
When  the  day  was  going  down, 

By  a  water  that  silently  wander'd  by 
Thro'  an  old  dim-lighted  town, 

II. 

Till  I  come  to  a  palace  fair  to  see. 

Wide  open  the  windows  were. 
My  love  at  a  window  sat ;  and  she 

Beckon'd  me  up  the  stair. 

III. 

I  roam'd  thro'  many  a  corridor, 

And  many  a  chamber  of  state  : 
Dim  and  silent  was  every  floor, 

And  the  day  was  growing  late. 

IV. 

When  I  came  to  the  little  rose-colour'd  room 
From  the  curtains  outflew  a  bat. 

The  window  was  open :  and  in  the  gloom 
My  love  at  the  window  sat. 


She  sat  with  her  guitar  on  her  knee, 

But  she  was  not  singing  a  note, 
For  some  one  had  drawn  (ah,  who  could  it  be?) 

A  knife  across  her  throat 


TPVO  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD.  fl 

TWO  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD. 


One  circle  of  all  its  golden  hours 

The  flitting  hand  of  the  timepiece  there, 

In  its  close  white  bower  of  china  flowers, 
Hath  rounded  unaware : 

II. 

While  the  firelight,  flung  from  the  flickering  wall 
On  the  large  and  limpid  mirror  behind, 

Hath  redden'd  and  darken'd  down  o'er  all, 
As  the  fire  itself  declined. 

III. 

Something  of  pleasure,  and  something  of  pain 
There  lived  in  that  sinking  light.     What  is  it? 

Faces  I  never  shall  look  at  again, 
In  places  you  never  will  visit, 

IV. 

Reveal'd  themselves  from  each  faltering  ember, 
While,  under  a  palely-wavering  flame, 

Half  of  the  years  life  aches  to  remember 
Reappear'd  and  died  as  they  came. 

V. 

To  its  dark  Forever  an  hour  hath  gone 
Since  either  you  or  I  have  spoken: 

Each  of  us  might  have  been  sitting  alone 
In  a  silence  so  unbroken. 


?2  Tl^^O  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD, 


VI. 


I  never  shall  know  what  made  me  look  up 
(In  this  cushion'd  chair  so  soft  and  deep, 

By  the  table  where,  over  the  empty  cup, 
I  was  leaning,  half  asleep) 


To  catch  a  gleam  on  the  picture  up  there 

Of  the  saint  in  the  wilderness  under  the  oak : 

And  a  light  on  the  brow  of  the  bronze  Voltaire, 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cynical  joke; 


To  mark,  in  each  violet,  velvet  fold 

Of  the  curtains  that  fall  'twixt  room  and  room, 
The  drowsy  flush  of  the  red  light  roll'd 

Thro'  their  drapery's  glowing  gloom. 


O'er  the  Rembrandt  there — the  Caracci  here — 
Flutter  warmly  the  ruddy  and  wavering  hues; 

And  St.  Anthony  over  his  book  has  a  leer 
At  the  little  French  beauty  by  Greuze. 


There — the  Leda,  weigh'd  over  her  white  swan  s 
back. 

By  the  weight  of  her  passionate  kiss,  ere  it  falls; 
On  the  ebony  cabinet,  glittering  black 

Thro'  its  ivory  cups  and  balls : 


TPVO  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD.  7Z 


Your  scissors  and  thimble,  and  work  laid  away, 
With  its  silks,  in  the  scented  rose- wood  box; 

The  journals,  that  tell  truth  every  day, 
And  that  novel  of  Paul  de  Kock's : 


The  flowers  in  the  vase,  with  their  bells  shut  close 
In  a  dream  of  the  far  green  fields  where  they  grev 

The  cards  of  the  visiting  people  and  shows 
In  that  bowl  with  the  sea-green  hue. 


Your  shawl,  with  a  queenly  droop  of  its  own, 
Hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  crimson  chair : 

And,  last — yourself,  as  silent  as  stone, 
In  a  glow  of  the  firelight  there  ! 


I  thought  you  were  reading  all  this  time. 

And  was  it  some  wonderful  page  of  your  book 
Telling  of  love,  with  its  glory  and  crime, 

That  has  left  you  that  sorrowful  look  ? 


For  a  tear  from  those  dark,  deep,  humid  orbs, 
'Neath  their  lashes,  so  long,  and  soft,  and  sleek, 

All  the  light  in  your  lustrous  eyes  absorbs, 
As  it  trembles  over  your  check. 


74  TIVO  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD. 


Were  you  thinking  how  we,  sitting  side  by  side, 
Might  be  dreaming  miles  and  miles  apart? 

Or  if  lips  could  meet  over  a  gulf  so  wide 
As  separates  heart  from  heart  ? 


XVII. 

Ah,  well  !  when  time  is  flown,  how  it  fled 
It  is  better  neither  to  ask  nor  tell. 

Leave  the  dead  moments  to  bury  their  dead. 
Let  us  kiss  and  break  the  spell ! 


XVIII. 

Come,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  window  here; 

Draw  the  thick  curtain,  and  see  how,  to-night, 
In  the  clear  and  frosty  atmosphere, 

The  lamps  are  burning  bright. 


XIX. 

All  night,  and  for  ever,  in  yon  great  town. 
The  heaving  Boulevart  flares  and  roars; 

And  the  streaming  Life  flows  up  and  down 
From  its  hundred  open  doors. 


XX. 

It  is  scarcely  so  cold,  but  I  and  you. 
With  never  a  friend  to  find  us  out. 

May  stare  at  the  shops  for  a  moment  or  two, 
And  wander  a  while  about. 


TIVO  OUT  OF  THE  CROWD.  75 


xxr. 


For  when  in  the  crowd  we  have  taken  our  place, 
( — Just  two  more  lives  to  the  mighty  street  there  !) 

Knowing  no  single  form  or  face 

Of  the  men  and  women  we  meet  there, — 


Knowing,  and  known  of,  none  in  the  whole 

Of  that  crowd  all  round,  but  our  two  selves  only, 

We  shall  grow  nearer,  soul  to  soul. 
Until  we  feel  less  lonely. 


Here  are  your  bonnet  and  gloves,  dear.     There — 
How  stately  you  look  in  that  long  rich  shawl  ! 

Put  back  your  beautiful  golden  hair. 
That  never  a  curl  may  fall. 


Stand  in  the  firelight  ...  so,  ...  as  you  were— 
Oh  my  heart,  how  fearfully  like  her  she  seem'd  ! 

Hide  me  up  from  my  own  despair, 
And  the  ghost  of  a  dream  I  dream 'd  I 


76  BLUEBEARD, 


BLUEBEARD. 


Fair  in  the  love  of  Fatima 

(A  maiden  like  an  evening  star) 

Lay  hid  this  stain'd  and  crooked  life, 
As  in  its  sheath  my  scimitar : 


For  fair  with  flow'rets  damascene 

The  sheath  is  traced  and  twined  about. 

But  on  the  blade  are  blood-spots  black 
That  time  and  rust  will  not  wear  out. 


III. 

Beneath  the  hot  pomegranate  boughs 
At  sunset  here  alone  we  sat. 

To  call  back  something  from  that  hour, 
I'd  give  away  my  Caliphat. 


IV. 

— Am  I  not  fair?  " 

"  As  evening  air," 
I  answer'd. 

"Fresh?" 

*'  As  April's  sky. 
Whate'er  I  be,"  she  whisper'd  me, 
••  I  love  thee,  and  all  thine  am  L" 


BLUEBEARD.  77 

V. 

'•  Be  satisfied." 

"Alas!"  I  sigh' J. 

And  "  wherefore  dost  thou  sigh  ?  "  she  said. 
"  Because  I  trace  in  thy  fair  face 

The  likeness  of  a  face  that's  dead." 

VI. 

Rash  question,  rash  reply  ! 

The  rest 

Is  writ  in  tears  where  all  who  read 
Revile  my  name.     Ah  Fatima, 

Why  did'st  thou  seek  to  know  my  dead  ? 


Large  realms  were  thine,  with  one  reserve 
Full  many  a  chamber,  many  a  hall. 

Thy  wandering  thought  was  free  to  rove  : 
I  gave  thee  up  the  keys  of  all. 

VIII. 

One  only  key  I  warn'd  thee,  spare 
To  use  ;  because  it  opes  a  door 

That's  shut  for  thy  sake  and  for  mine, 
But,  open'd  once,  will  shut  no  more  : 

IX. 

And  thou  that  door  hast  oped,  and  thou 
Hast  gazed  upon  the  dead,  and  I 

That  most  thy  fault,  rash  child,  deplore, 
Must  needs  inflict  its  penalty  ! 


78  RESURRECTION. 


FATIMA. 

1. 

A  YEAR  ago,  thy  cheek  was  bright 
As  oleander  buds  that  break 

The  dark  of  yonder  dells  by  night 
Above  the  lamplit  lake. 


II. 

Pale  as  a  snowdrop  in  Cashmere 

Thy  face  to-night,  fair  infant,  seems. 

Ah,  wretched  child  I  what  dost  thou  hear. 
When  T  talk  in  my  dreams  ? — 


RESURRECTION. 


At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there  ; — 

And  she  look'd  like  a  Queen  of  old  time  that  night, 
With  the  wreathed  pearls  in  her  raven  hair, 

And  her  breast  with  the  diamond  bright. 


II. 

Side  by  side  in  our  box  we  sat, 

Together,  my  bride  betroth'd  and  I : 

My  gaze  was  fix'd  on  my  opera-hat, 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by : 


RESURRECTION,  79 


III. 


And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad. 

Queenly  she  lean'd  on  her  full  white  arm, 
With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had  ; 

So  confident  of  her  charm  ! 


IV. 


I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that  he  was, 

Who  died  the  richest,  and  roundest  of  men, 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 


That  narrow  gate  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
He  was  not  too  portly,  I  trust,  to  pass. 

I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure  given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 


Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first  love, 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for  years, 

Till  over  mine  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 


I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last  time, 
When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress  tree  together, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  her  own  solt  clime. 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather, 


8o  RESURRECTION, 


VIII. 

By  the  broken  wall,  on  the  brown  grass  plot; 

And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden  chain 
And  her  full,  soft  hair,  wound  into  a  knot, 

And  falling  loose  again : 


And  the  jasmin-flower  in  her  fair  young  breast, 
(O  the  faint  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower  !) 

And  the  last  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest, 
And  the  first  star  over  blie  tower. 


I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife, 
And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back  my  ring. 

And  it  all  seem'd  then — in  the  waste  of  life — 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 


For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill. 
Which  the  sentinel  cypress  tree  stands  over. 

And  I  thought  ..."  were  she  only  living  still. 
How  I  could  forgive  her,  and  love  her  ! " 


And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus,  in  that  hour, 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  were  best, 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower 
Which  she  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 


RESURRECTION.  8i 


It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me  cold  ! 

Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the  crumbling  sheet 
Where  a  mummy  is  half  unroll'd. 


XIV. 

And  I  turn'd  and  look'd.     She  was  sitting  there 
In  a  dim  box  over  the  stage ;  and  drest 

In  the  dress  that  I  knew, — with  that  full  soft  hair, 
And  that  jasmin  in  her  breast. 


XV. 

She  was  there,  and  I  was  here  : 

And  the  glittering  horseshoe  curved  between ; 
And  from  here  to  there,  and  from  tier  to  tier, 

— From  my  bride  that  was  to  have  been. 


XVI. 

To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  down-cast, 
And  over  her  blush-rose  face  the  shade, 

(In  short,  from  the  Future  back  to  the  Past) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 


XVII. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 

One  moment  I  look'd.     Then  I  stole  to  the  door. 
And  traversed  the  passage,  and  down  at  her  side 

I  was  sitting  a  moment  more. 

712 


82  RESURRECTION. 


My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain, 
Or  something  that  never  will  be  exprest, 

Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave  again 
And  brought  her  back  to  my  breast. 


She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed ! 

But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved  me  then  ! 
And  the  very  first  words  that  her  sweet  lips  said, 

My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 


The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

She  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  handsome  still, 
And  but  for  her  .  .   .   well,  we'll  let  that  pass, 

She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 


But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love. 

With  her  blush-rose  face  :  for  old  things  are  best 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize  it  above 

The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 


The  world  is  fill'd  with  folly  and  sin, 
And  love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I  say: 

For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  isn't  loved  every  day. 


THE  CHESS-BOARD.  83 

xxiri. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women  and  men, 
There's  a  moment  when  all  would  go  smooth  and 
even, 

If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven. 


THE  CHESS-BOARD. 

Irene,  do  you  yet  remember. 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtain'd  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I  play'd  chess  together, 
Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes? 
Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  Knight. 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand  : 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  : 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves,  sidling,  through  the  fight. 
Our  fingers  touch:  our  glances  meet, 
And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 
Against  my  cheek ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.     Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 
And  checks  me  unaware. 
Ah  me  !  the  little  battle's  done, 
Disperst  is  all  its  chivalry; 
Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have  we 


84  FATA  MORGANA. 

'Mid  Life's  perplexing  chequers  made, 
And  many  a  game  with  Fortune  play'd, — 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least— if  this  alone;— 
That  never,  never,  never  more. 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore, 

(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise) 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 
Shut  out  the  world,  and  wintry  weather, 

And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 
Play  chess,  as  then  we  play'd,  together  ! 


FATA  MORGANA. 


When  the  latest  strife  is  lost,  and  all  is  done  with, 
Ere  we  slumber  in  the  spirit  and  the  brain. 

We  drowse  back,  in  dreams,  to  days  that  life  begun  with, 
And  their  tender  light  returns  to  us  again. 


I  have  cast  away  the  tangle  and  the  torment 
Of  the  cords  that  bound  my  life  up  in  a  mesh : 

And  the  pulse  begins  to  throb  that  long  lay  dormant 
'Neath  their  pressure;  and  the  old  wounds  bleed  afresh. 


I  am  touch'd  again  with  shades  of  early  sadness. 
Like  the  summer-cloud's  light  shadow  in  my  hair: 

I  am  thrill'd  again  with  breaths  of  boyish  gladness, 
Like  the  scent  of  some  last  primrose  on  the  air. 


FATA  MORGANA.  85 


And  again  she  comes,  with  all  her  silent  graces, 
The  lost  woman  of  my  youth,  yet  unpossest: 

And  her  cold  face  so  unlike  the  other  faces 
Of  the  women  whose  dead  lips  I  since  have  prest. 


The  motion  and  the  fragrance  of  her  garments 
Seem  about  me,  all  the  day  long,  in  the  room : 

And  her  face,  with  its  bewildering  old  endearments, 
Comes  at  night,  between  the  curtains,  in  the  gloom. 

VI. 

When  vain   dreams   are   stirr'd   with   sighing,   near  the 
morning, 

To  my  own  her  phantom  lips  I  feel  approach : 
And  her  smile,  at  eve,  breaks  o'er  me  without  warning 

From  its  speechless,  pale,  perpetual  reproach. 


When  Life's  dawning  glimmer  yet  had  all  the  tint  there 
Of  the  orient,  in  the  freshness  of  the  grass, 

(Ah,  what  feet  since  then  have  trodden  out  the  print 
there  !) 
Did  her  soft,  her  silent  footsteps  fall,  and  pass. 

VIII. 

They  fell  lightly,  as  the  dew  falls,  'mid  ungather'd 
Meadow-flowers ;  and  lightly  linger'd  with  the  dew. 

But  the  dew  is  gone,  the  grass  is  dried  and  wither'd, 
And  the  traces  of  those  steps  have  faded  too. 


86  FATA  MORGANA. 


Other  footsteps  fall  about  me — faint,  uncertain, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  world,  as  it  recedes: 

Other  forms  peer  thro'  the  half-uplifted  curtain 
Of  that  mystery  which  hangs  behind  the  creeds. 

X. 

What  is  gone  is  gone  for  ever.     And  new  fashions 
May  replace  old  forms  which  nothing  can  restore : 

But  I  turn  from  sighing  back  departed  passions 
With  that  pining  at  the  bosom  as  of  yore. 

XI. 

I  remember  to  have  murmur'd,  morn  and  even, 

"  Though  the  Earth  dispart  these  Earthlies,  face  from 
face, 

Yet  the  Heavenlies  shall  surely  join  in  Heaven, 
For  the  spirit  hath  no  bonds  in  time  or  space : 


'•  Where  it  listeth,  there  it  bloweth;  all  existence 
Is  its  region;  and  it  houseth,  where  it  will. 

I  shall  feel  her  through  immeasurable  distance. 
And  grow  nearer,  and  be  gather'd  to  her,  still. 

XIII. 

"  If  I  fail  to  find  her  out  by  her  gold  tresses, 
Brows,  and  breast,  and  lips,  and  language  of  sweet 
strains, 

I  shall  know  her  by  the  traces  of  dead  kisses. 
And  that  portion  of  myself  whicli  she  retains." 


FATA  MORGANA.  By 


But  my  being  is  confused  with  new  experience, 
And  changed  to  something  other  than  it  was; 

And  the  Future  with  the  Past  is  set  at  variance; 
And  Life  falters  'neath  the  burthens  which  it  has. 


XV. 

Famisht  hopes  press  fast  behind  me,  weakly  wailing: 
Faint  before  me  fleets  the  good  I  have  not  done: 

And  my  search  for  her  may  still  be  unavailing 
'Mid  the  spirits  that  are  pass'd  beyond  the  sun. 


CONSOLATION. 


CONSOLATION. 

When  I  perceive  how  slight  and  poor  appears 
(Though  with  sad  care  and  strong  compulsion  brought 
Down  ranged  rhymes  with  strenuous  search  of  thought) 
The  express'd  result  of  my  most  passionate  years; 
Remembering,  too,  from  what  divinest  spheres 
Stoop'd  many  a  starry  visitant,  and  taught 
My  spirit  at  her  toils, — how  round  her  wrought 
Strong  Raptures,  Sorrows,  Splendours  rich  in  tears, 
My  whole  heart  fails  me.     Then  an  inward  voice 
Replies,   "Possess  thyself,  and  be  content. 
Life's  best  is  bound  not  by  the  utterance 
Of  any  word,  nor  may  in  sound  be  spent, 
To  win  back  echoes  out  of  hollow  chance. 
What  thou  hasty^//  is  thine.     If  much,  rejoice." 


A  FOOTSTEP.  89 


A  FOOTSTEP. 

Within  my  mind  there  is  a  garden :  part 

Sprung  from  the  greenest  stray  aways  of  Spring 
In  a  dewy  time  :  part  by  long  labouring 

Of  toilful  Love,  and  many  a  culturing  art 

Learn'd  of  skill'd  Grief  in  patientness  of  heart, 
Nor  without  weariness,  wrought.   Deep-blossoming 
Growths  of  long-planted  pain  cold  shadow  fling, 

Sun-proof  to  every  casual  golden  dart, 

Over  one  aspect  of  this  haunt.     Elsewhere 
Full  sunlight  sleeps  for  ever.     Many  a  day 

I  lose  myself  about  this  quiet  place, 
Following  one  footstep  ever  the  same  way. 

Dear,  'tis  thy  ghostly  footstep  that  I  trace, 
But  thee  thyself  I  find  not  here  nor  there. 


90  REQUIESCAT. 


REQUIESCAT. 

I  SOUGHT  lo  build  a  deathless  monument 

To  my  dead  love.     Therein  I  meant  to  place 
All  precious  things,  and  rare  :  as  Nature  blent 

All  single  sweetnesses  in  one  sweet  face. 
I  could  not  build  it  worthy  her  mute  merit, 

Nor  worthy  her  white  brows  and  holy-eyes, 
Nor  worthy  of  her  perfect  and  pure  spirit, 

Nor  of  my  own  immortal  memories. 
But,  as  some  rapt  artificer  of  old, 

To  enshrine  the  ashes  of  a  virgin  saint, 
Might  scheme  to  work  with  ivory,  and  fine  gold, 

And  carven  gems,  and  legended  and  quaint 
Seraphic  heraldies;  searching  far  lands, 

Orient  and  Occident,  for  all  things  rare, 
To  consecrate  the  toil  of  reverent  hands. 

And  m.ake  his  labour,  like  her  virtue,  fair ; 
Knowing  no  beauty  beautiful  as  she, 

And  all  his  labour  void,  Init  to  beguile 
A  sacred  sorrow  ;  so  I  work'd.     Ah,  see 

Here  are  the  fragments  of  my  shatter'd  pile  ! 
I  keep  them,  and  the  flowers  that  sprang  between 

Their  broken    workmanship — the    flowers  and 
weeds  ! 
Sleep  soft  among  the  violets,  O  my  Queen, 

Lie  calm  among  my  ruin'd  thoughts  and  deeds  ! 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  91 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE. 

I. 

The  folds  of  her  wine-dark  violet  dress 

Glow  over  the  sofa  fall  on  fall, 
As  she  sits  in  the  air  of  her  loveliness, 

With  a  smile  for  each  and  for  all. 

II. 

Half  of  her  exquisite  face  in  the  shade, 

Which  o'er  it  the  screen  in  her  soft  hand  flings ; 

Through  the  gloom  glows  her  hair  in  its  odorous  braid 
In  the  firelight  are  sparkling  her  rings. 


As  she  leans — the  slow  smile  half  shut  up  in  her  eyes, 
Beams  the  silky,  long  silk  soft  lashes  beneath  ; 

Through  her  crimson  lips,  stirred  by  her  faint  replies, 
Breaks  one  gleam  of  her  pearl-white  teeth. 

IV. 

As  she  leans — where  your  eye,  by  her  beauty  subdued. 
Droops — from  under  warm  fringes  of  broidery  white- 

The  slightest  of  feet,  silken-slippered,  protrude 
For  one  moment,  then  slip  out  of  sight. 


As  I  bend  o'er  her  bosom  to  tell  her  the  news. 

The  faint  scent  of  her  hair,  the  approach  of  her  cheek, 

The  vague  warmth  of  her  breath,  all  my  senses  suffuse 
With  Herself;  and  I  tremble  to  speak. 


92  MADAME  LA  MARQUISE. 

VI. 

As  she  sits  in  the  curtained,  Uixurious  light 

Of  that  room  with  its  porcelain,   and  pictures,   and 
flowers, 
When  the  dark  day's  half  done,  and  the  snow  flutters 
white 
From  the  windows  in  feathery  showers, 

VII. 

All  without  is  so  cold — 'neath  the  low  leaden  sky ! 

Down  the  bald,  empty  street,  hke  a  ghost  the  gen- 
darme 
Stalks  surly;  a  distant  carriage  hums  by, 

All  within  is  so  bright  and  so  warm. 


Here  we  talk  of  the  schemes  and  the  scandals  of  court, 
How  the  courtesan  pushes;  the  charlatan  thrives; 

We  put  horns  on  the  heads  of  our  friends,  just  for  sport. 
Put  intrigues  in  the  heads  of  their  wives. 


Her  warm  hand,  at  parting,  so  strangely  thrilled  mine, 
That  at  dinner  I  scarcely  remark  what  they  say. 

Drop  the  ice  in  my  soup,  spill  the  salt  in  my  wine, 
Then  go  yawn  at  my  favourite  play. 


But  she  drives  after  noon : — then's  the  time  to  behold  her, 
With  her  fair  face  half  hid,  like  a  ripe  peeping  rose, 

'Neath  that  veil;  o'er  the  velvets  and  furs  which  enfold 
her. 
Leaning  back  with  a  queenly  repose. 


MADAME  LA  MARQUISE.  93 


XI. 


As  she  glides  up  the  sunlight  1 — you'd  say  she  was  made. 
To  loll  back  in  a  carriage,  all  day  with  a  smile, 

And  at  dusk,  on  a  sofa,  to  lean  in  the  shade 
Of  soft  lamps,  and  be  woo'd  for  awhile. 


XII. 


Could  we  find  out  her  heart  through  that  velvet  and  lace; 

Can  it  beat  without  ruffling  her  sumptuous  dress; 
She  will  show  us  her  shoulder,  her  bosom,  her  face, 

But  what  the  heart's  like,  we  must  guess. 


With  live  women  and  men  to  be  found  in  the  world — 
Live  with  sorrow  and  sin,  live  with  pain  and  with 
passion — 
Who  could  live  with  a  doll,  tho'  its  locks  should  be 
curled, 
And  its  petticoats  trimmed  in  the  fashion  ? 


XIV. 

*Tis  so  fair ! — would  my  bite,  if  I  bit  it  draw  blood  ? 

Will  it  cry  if  I  hurt  it  ?  or  scold  if  I  kiss  ? 
Is  it  made,  with  its  beauty  of  wax  or  of  wood  ? 

Is  it  worth  while  to  guess  at  all  this? 


94  MIDGES. 

MIDGES. 
I. 

She  is  talking  aesthetics,  the  dear  clever  creature; 

Upon  man  and  his  functions  she  speaks  with  a  smile, 
Her  ideas  are  divine  upon  Art,  upon  Nature, 

The  Sublime,  the  Heroic,  and  Mr.  Carlyle. 


I  no  more  am  found  worthy  to  join  in  the  talk,  now, 

So  I  follow  with  my  surreptitious  cigar. 
Whilst  she  leads  our  poetical  friend  up  the  walk  now, 

Who  quotes  Wordsworth  and  praises  her  "  Thoughts 
on  a  Star !  " 


Meanwhile,  there  is  dancing  in  yonder  green  bower, 
A  swarm  of  young  midges.    They  dance  high  and  low, 

'Tis  a  sweet  little  species  that  lives  but  an  hour, 
And  the  eldest  was  born  half  an  hour  ago. 


One  impulsive  young  midge,  I  hear  ardently  pouring. 
In  the  ears  of  a  shy  little  wanton  in  gauze, 

His  eternal  devotion  ;  his  ceaseless  adoring, 

Which  shall  last  till  the  universe  breaks  from  its  laws. 

V. 

His  passion  is  not,  he  declares,  the  mere  fever 
Of  a  rapturous  moment.      It  knows  no  control  ; 

It  will  burn  in  his  breast  through  existence  for  ever, 
Immutably  fixed  in  the  deeps  of  his  soul. 


MIDGES,  95 

VI. 

She  wavers— she  fktters — male  midges  are  fickle^ 
Dare  she  trust  him  her  future  ? — she  asks  with  a  sigh, 

He  implores — and  a  tear  is  beginning  to  trickle, 

She  is  weak — they  embrace  and — the  lovers  pass  by. 


VII. 

While   they   pass   me — down   here   on  a   rose   leaf  has 
lighted 

A  pale  midge,  his  feelers  all  drooping  and  torn, 
His  existence  is  withered ;  its  future  is  blighted. 

His  hopes  are  betrayed  and  his  heart  is  forlorn. 


VIII. 

By  the  midge  his  heart  trusted,  his  heart  is  deceived  now, 
In  the  virtue  of  midges  he  no  more  believes 

From  love  in  its  falsehood,  once  wildly  believed  now. 
He  will  bury  his  desolate  life  in  the  leaves. 


His  friends  would  console  him — the  noblest,  sagest 
Of  midges  have  held  that  a  midge  lives  again ; 

In  Eternity,  say  they,  the  strife  thou  now  wagest 
With  sorrow  shall  cease — but  their  words  are  in  vain. 


Can  eternity  bring  back  the  seconds  now  wasted 
In  hopeless  desire?  or  restore  to  his  breast, 

The  belief  he  has  lost,  with  the  bliss  he  once  tasted, 
Embracing  the  midge  that  his  being  loved  best  ? 


96  MIDGES. 


His  friends  would  console  him — the  masses  adore  him: 
Many  hundred  long  seconds  he  still  has  to  live ; 

A  beneficent  public  career  is  before  him, 

Let  him  seek  in  the  great  world  of  action  to  strive ! 


There  is  Fame — there's  Ambition  !  and  grander  than 
either, 

There  is  Freedom — the  progress  and  march  of  the  race. 
But  to  Freedom  his  breast  beats  no  longer,  and  neither 

Ambition  nor  action  her  loss  can  replace. 


If  the  time  had  been  spent  in  acquiring  aesthetics 

I  have  squandered  in  learning  this  language  of  midges, 

There  might,  for  my  friend  in  her  peripatetics, 
Have  been  now  two  ones  to  help  o'er  the  bridges. 


As  it  is,  I'll  report  her  the  whole  conversation. 

It  would  have  been  longer,  but  somehow  or  other 
(In  the  midst  of  that  misanthrope's  long  lamentation) 

A  midge  in  my  right  eye  became  a  young  mother. 


Since  my  friend  is  so  clever,  I'll  ask  her  to  tell  me 

"Why  the  least  living  thing  (a  mere  midge  in  the  egg !) 

Can  make  a  man's  tears  flow  as  now  it  befell  me. 
Oh,  you  dear  clever  woman,  explain  it,  I  beg  I 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH.        97 

GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 
I. 

A  LITTLE  longer  in  the  light,  love,  let  me  be  !     The  air 

is  warm. 
I  hear  the  cuckoo's  last  good-night  float  from  the  copse 

below  the  Farm. 
A  little  longer,  Sister  sweet — your  hand  in  mine — on  this 

old  seat ! 


In  yon  red  gable,  which  the  rose  creeps  round  and  o'er, 
your  casement  shines 

Against  the  yellow  west,  o'er  those  few  sinuous,  melan- 
choly pines. 

The  long,  loud  day  is  nearly  done.  How  silent  all  the 
place  is  grown ! 


From  the  warm  upland  comes  a  gust  made  fragrant  with 

the  brown  hay  there. 
The  meek  cows,    with  their  white  horns  thrust   across 

the  hedge,  stand  still  and  stare. 
The  steaming  horses  from  the  wains  droop  o'er  the  tank 

their  plaited  manes. 


And  o'er  yon  hill-side  brown  and  barren  (where  you  and 

I,  as  children,  play'd. 
Starting  the  rabbit  to  his  warren),  I  hear  the  sandy,  shrill 

cascade 
Leap  down  upon  the  vale,  and  spill  cool  sound  and  light 

i'  the  lonesome  Mill, 

713 


98         GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  TORCH, 


O  can  it   be  for  nothing  only  that  this  fair  world  was 

shown  to  me? 
Or  but  to  leave  the  heart  more  lonely  for  loss  of  beauty  ? 

Can  it  be  ? 
O  closer,  closer,  Sister  dear  .   .   .  nay,  I  have  kist  away 

that  tear. 


God  bless  you,  for  the  tender  thought  which  only  upon 

tears  could  rise  I 
God  bless  you,  for  the  love  that  sought  to  hide  them  in 

those  drooping  eyes. 
Whose  lids  I  kiss !  .   .   .  poor  lids,  so  red !  but  let  my 

kiss  fall  there  instead. 


VII. 

Yes!  sad,    indeed,   it   seems   each   night,— and  sadder. 

Sister,  for  your  sake, — 
To  watch   the  last   low  lingering  light,  and  know  not 

where  the  morn  may  break. 
To-night  we  sit  together   here.     To-morrow  night  will 

come  ...  ah,  where? 


VIII. 

There's  not  a  flower,  there's  not  a  tree,  in  this  old  garden 

where  we  sit, 
But  what  some  fragrant  memory  is  closed  and  folded  up 

in  it. 
To-night  the  dog-rose  smells  as  wild,  as  fresh,  as  when  I 

was  a  child ! 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH.        99 


'Tis  eight  years  since  (do  you  forget?)  we  set  those  lilies 

near  the  wall : 
A  blue-eyed   infant,  you  !  even  yet   I  seem   to  see  the 

ringlets  fall — 
The  golden  ringlets,  blown  behind  your  shoulders  in  the 

merry  wind ! 

X. 

Ah  me !  old  times, — the  sweet,  the  sting !     And  oft,  by 

yonder  green  old  gate 
The  field  shows  through,  in  morns  of  Spring,  an  eager 

boy,  I  paused  elate 
With  all  sweet  fancies  loosed  from  school.     And  oft,  you 

know,  when  eves  were  cool 


In  August,  bold  as  two  young  rooks  perch'd  in  a  belfry 
by  themselves, 

We,  chatting  of  our  favourite  books,  light-hearted  over- 
weening elves. 

Dealt  praise  or  blame  to  poets  gone,  here  in  the  wood- 
bine-porch alone. 


Farewell,   my   epic — I   began   when    life   seem'd    long, 

though  longer  art, — 
And  all  the  glorious  deeds  of  man  made  golden  riot  in 

my  heart — 
Eight    books  .   ...  it   will   not    number   nine !    I   die 

before  my  heroine. 


loo      GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH, 


Sister  !  they  say  that  drowning  men  in  one  wild  moment 

can  recall 
Their  whole  life  long,  and  feel  again  the  pain — the  bliss 

— that  throng'd  it  all. 
Last    night    those   phantoms   of    the   past    again   came 

crowding  round  me  fast. 


Near  morning,  when  the  lamp  was  low,  against  the  wall 

they  seem'd  to  flit ; 
And,  as   the  wavering   light   would   glow  or  fall,  they 

came  and  went  with  it. 
The  ghost  of  boyhood  seem'd  to  gaze  down  the  dark 

verge  of  vanisht  days. 


Once  more  the  garden,  where   she  walk'd  on  summer 

eves  to  tend  her  flowers, 
Once  more  the   lawn,  where  first  we  talk'd  of  future 

years  in  twilight  hours, 
Arose ;  once  more  she  seem'd  to  pass  before  me,  in  the 

waving  grass, 


To  that  old  terrace  ;  her  bright  hair  about  her  warm  neck 

all  undone. 
And  waving  on  the  balmy  air,  with  tinges  of  the  dying 

sun; 
One  lone  bright  star  in  the  broad  west;   one  late  bird 

singing  near  its  nest. 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH.       loi 


XVII. 

So  lovely,  so  beloved !     Oh  fair  as  though  that  sun  had 

never  set 
Which  staid  upon  her  golden  hair,  in  dreams  I  seem  to 

see  her  yet : 
To  see  her  in  that  old  green  place — the  same  husht 

smiling  cruel  face ! 

XVIII. 

That  hair,  not  unlike  yours — as  bright,  but  with  a  warmer 

golden  tinge  I 
Those  eyes,   a  somewhat   deeper    light,    that    dream'd 

beneath  a  longer  fringe  ! 
And  still  that  strange  grave  smile  she  had  stays  in  my 

soul  and  keeps  it  sad. 


From  little  things— a  star,  a  flower — that  touch'd  us  with 

the  self-same  thought, 
My  passion  deepen'd  hour  by  hour,  until  to  such  fierce 

heat  'twas  wrought, 
As,  shrivelling  over  every  nerve,  crumbled  the  outworks 

of  reserve. 


I  told  her  then,  in  that  wild  time,  the  love  I  knew  she 

long  had  seen; 
The  accusing  pain  that  burn'd  like  crime,  yet  left  me 

nobler  than  I  had  been ; 
What  matter  with  what  words  I  woo'd  her?     She  said  I 

had  misunderstood  her. 


I02      GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH, 


Misunderstood !     misunderstood !    .    ,    .    Ay,    not    her 

only,  but  thereby 
All  that  souls  say  in  flesh  and  blood !  misunderstanding 

till  I  die 
The  meaning  of  that  face,  the  while  my  heart  lay  aching 

in  its  smile. 


Misunderstood?  misunderstood?  ay,  life,  love,  all  things, 

when,  alone, 
I  heard  the  crashing  of  my  blood  on  the  brute  silence  1 

She  was  gone. 
The  stinging  sunlight  stabb'd  me  through  the  leaves. 

Above,  the  blind,  bright  blue 

XXIII. 

Laugh'd,  with  no  meaning,  in  my  face.     And  nothing 

could  I  realise 
Save  a  dull    strangeness, — the    disgrace  of   a  stunn'd 

impotent  surprise. 
The  great  noon  gaped  :   blithe  birds  were  shrill.     The 

world  went  on  ;  my  heart  stood  still. 

XXIV. 

My  heart  stands  still,  the  world  goes  on,  the  years  go  by, 

and  now  a  mild 
Unmurmuring  mind   hath  sorrow   won  from   memory. 

I  have  seen  her  child, — 
The  self- same  eyes   its  mother    had,— that    once    had 

power  to  make  me  mad  I 


good-:night  in  the  porch,     103 


Dark  violet  eyes  whose  glances,  deep  with  April-hints  of 

sunny  tears, 
'Neath    long    soft  lashes  laid  asleep,   seem'd    all    too 

thoughtful  for  her  years  ! 
As  though  from  mine  her  gaze  had  caught  the  secret 

of  some  mournful  thought. 

XXVI. 

But  when  she  spake,  her  father's  air  broke  o'er  her  .  .   . 

that  clear  confident  voice  ! 
Some    happy  souls    there  are   that   wear   their    nature  [ 

lightly ;  these  rejoice  ] 

The  world  by  living,  and  receive  from  all  men  more   j 

than  what  they  give. 

XXVII. 

One  handful  of  their  buoyant  chaff  excels  our  hoards  of 

careful  grain. 
Justly  :  for  one  man's  joyous  laugh  augments  earth's  joy, 

— is  all  men's  gain. 
Scorn  not   the  gift  of  gladness  given  to  those  bright  f 

souls.     It  is  from  Heaven.  I 

XXVIIT. 

And,  there,  are  many  mansions  made :   and,  here,  are 

many  ways :  and  one 
Walks  safest  in   the  sheltering  shade,  another  in  the 

cheering  sun. 
His  sheep  the  Heavenly  Shepherd  guides,  and  pasture  fit 

for  each  provides, 


I04      GOOD- NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 


With  care  for  all.     And  some  His  showers  shall  whiten, 

some  His  suns  shall  warm. 
Our  pains  are  portioned  to  our  powers.     His  hand  may 

hurt,  but  cannot  harm. 
But,  if  the  cross  be  on  us  laid,  and  our  soul's  crown  of 

thorns  be  made, 


Then,   sure,  'twere  best  to  bear  the  cross;    nor  lightly 

fling  the  thorns  behind, 
Lest  we  grow  happy  by  the  loss  of  what  was  noblest  in 

the  mind. 
Here — in  the  ruins  of  my  years — Master,  I  thank  Thee, 

through  these  tears ! 

XXXI. 

Thou  suffered'st  here,  and  did'st  not  fail.     Thy  bleeding 

feet  these  paths  have  trod. 
But  Thou  wert  strong,  and  I  am  frail ;  and  I  am  man, 

and  Thou  art  God. 
How  I  have  striven,   Thou  know'st.      Forgive  how  I 

have  fail'd,  who  saw'st  me  strive. 

XXXII. 

It  was  in  the  far  foreign  lands  this  sickness  came  upon 

me  first. 
By  hot  winds  scorching  desert  sands  this  fever  of  the 

south  was  nurst. 
Until  it  reach'd  some  vital  part.     I  die  not  of  a  brokeri 

heart. 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH.       105 

XXXIII. 

O  think   not   that !     If  I  could  live  .  .   .  there's  much 

to  live  for,  worthy  life. 
It  is  not  for  what  fame  could  give — though  that  I  scorn 

not — but  the  strife 
Were  noble  for  its  own  sake  too.      I  thought  that  I  had 

much  to  do — 

XXXIV. 

But   God   begins,  child,  where   men   end.   ,   .   .   Ilark ! 

'twas  the  bittern,  as  he  rose 
Against  the  glaring  river-bend.       How  red   your  little 

casement  glows  I 
The  night  falls  fast.     How  lonely,  dear,  this  bleak  old 

house  will  look  next  year ! 

XXXV. 

So  sad  a  thought?  ...  ah,  yes!  I  know  it  is  not  well 

to  brood  on  this  : 
And  yet — such    thoughts  will  come  and  go,  unbidden. 

"Tis  that  you  should  miss, 
My  darling,  one  familiar  tone  of  this  weak  voice  when  I 

am  gone. 


Again,    that    bittern's    good-night    cry !     And   what    a 

melancholy  charm 
In  yonder  streak  of  orange  sky !     Sweet  sister,  lend  your 

gentle  arm 
To  help  me  back  to  my  old  chair.     And  will  you  sit 

beside  me  there? 


io6  SPRING  AND   WINTER, 


Such  calm  is  in   my  soul   to-night,  and  all   my  life  so 

dreamlike  seems, 
I  have  no  wish  to  sleep.     For  quite  awake  I  dream  the 

strangest  dreams. 
\Vhich  you  must  hear.     Time  fleets  away.     And  still, 

child,  still  so  much  to  say ! 


SPRING  AND  WINTER. 


Was  it  well  in  him,  if  he 

Felt  not  love,  to  speak  of  love  so  ? 
If  he  still  unmoved  must  be, 

Was  it  nobly  sought  to  move  so  ? 
— Pluck  the  flower,  but  not  to  wear  it- 
Spurn  it  from  him,  yet  not  spare  it? 


Need  he  say  tliat  I  was  fair, 
With  such  meaning  in  his  tone, 

Adding  ever  that  her  hair 

Had  the  same  tinge  as  my  own  ? 

Pluck  my  life  up,  root  and  bloom. 

To  make  garlands  for  her  tomb  ? 


And,  her  cheek,  he  said,  tho'  bright, 

Lack'd  the  lucid  blush  divine 
Of  that  rose  each  whisper  light 


SPRING  AND   WINTETi.  107 

Of  his  praises  waked  in  mine; 
But  'twas  just  that  he  loved  then 
More  than  he  can  love  again. 

IV. 

Then,  if  beauty  could  not  bind  him, 
Wherefore  praise  me,  speaking  low  ? 

Use  my  face  just  to  remind  him 

How  no  face  could  please  him  now  ? 

Why,  if  loving  could  not  move  him, 

Did  he  teach  me  still  to  love  him  ? 


"  Yes  !  "  he  said,  "  he  had  grown  wise  now ; 

He  had  suffer'd  much  of  yore  : 
But  a  fair  face,  to  his  eyes  now, 

Was  a  fair  face,  and  no  more. 
Yet  the  anguish  and  the  bliss. 
And  the  dream  too,  had  been  his." 


Ah,  those  words  a  thought  too  tender 
For  the  commonplaces  spoken  ! 

Looks  whose  meaning  seem'd  to  render 
Help  to  words  when  speech  came  broken ! 

Why  so  late  in  July  moonlight 

Just  to  say  what's  said  by  noonlight? 

VII. 

And  why  praise  my  youth  for  gladness. 

Keeping  something  in  his  smile 
That  changed  all  my  youth  to  sadness, 


io8  SPRING  AND  WINTER, 

He  still  smiling  all  the  while  ? 
Since,  when  so  my  youth  was  over. 
He  said   '•  seek  some  younger  lover  ! 


Well,  the  Spring's  back  now  !  the  thrushes 

Are  astir  as  heretofore, 
And  the  apple  blossom  blushes 

As  of  old  about  the  door. 
Doth  he  taste  a  finer  bliss, 
I  must  wonder,  in  all  this, 


(Winning  thus  what  I  have  lost) 
By  the  usage  of  my  youth  ? 

—  I  can  feel  my  forehead  crost 
By  the  wrinkle's  fretful  tooth, 

While  the  grey  grows  in  my  hair, 

And  the  cold  creeps  everywhere. 


THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE,  109 


SONG  FROM  ''LUCILEP 


THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE. 


Hear  a  song  that  was  born  in  the  land  of  my  birth! 

Tlie  anchors  are  lifted,  the  fair  ship  is  free, 
And  the  shout  of  the  mariners  floats  in  its  mirth — 

'Twixt  the  light  in  the  sky  and  the  light  on  the-sea. 


And  the  ship  is  a  world.  She  is  freighted  with  souls/ 
She  is  freighted  with  merchandise  ;  proudly  she  sails 

With  the  Labour  that  stores  and  the  Will  that  control 
The  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in  the  bales.        •■'' 


III. 

From  the  gardens  of  Pleasure,  where  reddens  the  rose, 
And  the  scent  of  the  cedar  is  faint  on  the  air, 

Past  the  harbours  of  Traffic,  sublimely  she  goes, 
Mati*s  hopes  o'er  the  world  of  the  waters  to  bear  \ 


THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE, 


IV. 

While  the  cheer  from  the  harbours  of  Traffic  is  heard, 
Where  the  gardens  of  Pleasure  fade  fast  on  the  sight, 

O'er  the  rose,  o'er  the  cedar,  there  passes  a  bird, 
'Tis  the  Paradise  Bird,  never  known  to  alight. 


And  that  bird,  bright  and  bold  as  a  Poet's  desire, 

Roams  her  own  native  heavens,  the  realms  of  her  birth 

There  she  soars  like  a  seraph,  she  shines  like  a  fire, 
And  her  plumage  has  never  been  sullied  by  earth. 


VI. 

And  the  mariners  greet  her ;  there's  song  on  each  lip. 
For  that  bird  of  good  omen,  and  joy  in  each  eye. 

And  the  ship  and  the  bird  and  the  bird  and  the  ship, 
Together  go  forth  over  ocean  and  sky. 


VII. 

Fast,  fast  fades  the  land !  far  the  rose-gardens  flee. 
And  far  fleet  the  harbours.     In  regions  unknown 

The  ship  is  alone  on  a  desert  of  sea, 
And  the  bird  in  a  desert  of  sky  is  alone. 


VIII. 

In  those  regions  unknown,  o'er  that  desert  of  air, 
Down  that  desert  of  waters — tremendous  in  wrath, — 

The  storm-wind  Euryclydon  leaps  from  his  lair 

And  cleaves,  through  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  his  path. 


THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE. 


IX. 

And  the  bird  in  the  cloud,  and  the  ship  on  the  wave, 
Overtaken,  are  beaten  about  by  wild  gales ; 

And  the  mariners  all  rush  their  cargo  to  save, 
Of  the  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in  the  bales. 


X. 

Lo  !     A  wonder  which  never  before  hath  been  heard, 
For  it  never  before  hath  been  given  to  sight ; 

On  the  ship  hath  descended  the  Paradise  Bird, 
The  Paradise  Bird  never  known  to  alight ! 


The  bird  which  the  mariners  bless'd,  when  each  lip 
Had  a  song  for  the  omen  which  gladden'd  each  eye, 

The  bright  bird  for  shelter  hath  flown  to  the  ship 
From  the  wrath  on  the  sea  and  the  wrath  in  the  sky. 


But  the  mariners  heed  not  the  bird  any  more, 
They  are  felling  the  masts,  they  are  cutting  the  sails, 

Some  are  working,  some  weeping,  and  some  wrangling 
o'er 
Their  gold  in  the  ingots,  their  silk  in  the  bales. 


Souls  of  men  are  on  board;  wealth  of  man  in  the  hold, 
And  the  storm-wind  Euryclydon  sweeps  to  his  prey; 

And  who  heeds  the  bird?  Save  the  silk  and  the  gold ! 
And  the  bird  from  her  shelter  the  gust  sweeps  away! 


12  THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE. 


XIV. 

Poor  Paradise  Bird  !  on  her  lone  flight  once  more, 
Back  again  in  the  wake  of  the  wind  she  is  driven 

To  be  whelm'd  in  the  storm,  or  above  it  to  soar, 
And,  if  rescued  from  ocean,  to  vanish  to  heaven  ! 


And  the  ship  rides  the  waters  and  weathers  the  gales, 
From  the  haven  she  nears  the  rejoicing  is  heard. 

All  hands  are  at  work  on  the  ingots,  the  bales, 

Save  a  child,  sitting  lonely,  who  misses — the  Bird  ! 


THE  STAG  AND  THE  VILA.       n 


From  ''SONGS  OF  SERVIAN 


THE  STAG  AND  THE  VILA.* 

O'er  the  mountain,  the  wild  stag  browses  the  mountain 

herbage  alone. 
At  morn   he   browses,  at   noon  he  sickens,    at  eve   he 

maketh  moan. 
From  the  rifts  of  the  rocky  quarries  the  Vila  hears  him 

and  calls — 
"O  beast   of  the  mountain  meadows,  the   woods,  and 

the  waterfalls, 
What  sorrow  is  thine,  so  great  that,  browsing  at  morn, 

At  noon  thou  ailest  ? 
And   now  to  the  stars  thou  art  moaning !     What  is  it 

that  thou  bewailest  ?  " 
And  the  wild  stag  answers  the  Vila,  mournfully  moaning 

low, — ■ 
*'  O  queen  of  the  hills,  my  sister  !  I  mourn  for  my  lost 

white  doe, 

*  The  Vilas  are  supernatural  beings  that  appear  frequently  in 
the  popular  poetry  oi  Servia.  They  are  a  kind  ot  fierce  Oreads 
dwelling  among  the  mountains  and  forests.  They  are  not  in- 
capable of  sympathy  with  the  human  race,  though  their  love  is 
generally  treacherous  and  often  fatal.— See  Songs  of  Servia.— 
Note  by  Atjthok. 


114  LOVE  AND  SLEEP. 

My  milk-white  doe,  my  darling  !  from  me  o'er  the  moun- 
tain track, 
She  vvander'd  away  to  the  fountain ;  she  wander'd  and 

never  came  back. 
Either  forlornly  she  wanders,  mourning  me,  missing  her 

way, 
Or  the  hunters  have  foUow'd  and  found  her,   and  she 

hath  perish'd — their  prey, 
Or  else   she  forgets  me,  the  faithless  thing !   and  ever 

by  valley  and  crag 
Strays  wanton  after  a  belling  note,  and  follows  another 

stag. 
If  she  be  lost  in  the  lonesome  places,  and  hollows  under 

the  moon, 
I  pray  that  God  of  His  goodness  will  guide  her  back  to 

me  soon, 
But  if  she  follows  another  stag  caring  no  more  to  come 

back, 
I  pray  that  God  in  His  vengeance  guide  the  hunter  fleet 

on  her  track." 


LOVE  AND  SLEEP. 

I  walk'd  the  high  and  hollow  wood,  from  dawn  to 

even-dew, 
The  wild-eyed  wood  stared  on  me  and  unclasp'd  and  let 

me  thro'. 
Where   mountain   pines    like    great   black  birds,    stood 

percht  against  the  blue. 


LOVE  AND  SLEEP.  115 

Not  a  whisper  heaved  the  woven  waof  of  those  warm 

trees ; 
All  the  little  leaves  lay  flat,  unmoved  of  bird  or  breeze; 
Day  was  losing  light  all  round  by  indolent  degrees. 

Underneath  the  brooding  branches,  all  in  holy  shade, 
Unseen  hands  of  mountain  things  a  mossy  couch  had 

made, 
There,  asleep,  among  pale  flowers,  my  beloved  was  laid. 

Slipping    down,    a   sunbeam    bathed    her    brows   with 

bounteous  gold, 
Unmoved  upon  her  maiden  breast  her  heavy  hair  was 

roll'd, 
Her  smile  was  silent  as  the  smile  on  corpses  three  hours 

old. 

"Oh,  God,"    I  thought,   "if  this  be  death  that  makes 

nor  sound  nor  stir  !  " 
My  heart  stood  still  with  tender  awe,  I  dared  not  waken 

her, 
But  to  the  dear  God  in  the  sky,  this  prayer  I  did  prefer, 

*' Grant,   dear   Lord,   in  the  blessed  sky,  a  warm  wind 

from  the  sea, 
To  shake  a  leaf  down  on  my  love  from  yonder  leafy  tree. 
That  she  may  open  her  sweet  eye  and  haply  look  on  me !  " 


The  dear  God  from  the  distant  sea  a  little  wind  releast, 
It  shook  a  leaflet  from  the  tree  and  laid  it  on  her  breast, 
Her  sweet  eyes  ope'd  and  look'd  on  me.      How  can  I 
tell  the  rest  ? 


II&  TITTLE  TATTLE, 


TITTLE  TATTLE. 


Two  lovers  kist  in  the  meadow  green ; 

They  thought  there  was  none  to  espy; 

But  the  meadow  green  told  what  it  had  seen 

To  the  white  flock  wandering  by. 

The  white  flock  told  it  the  shepherd, 

The  shepherd  the  traveller  from  far, 

The  traveller  told  it  the  mariner 

Watching  the  pilot  star ; 

The  mariner  told  it  his  little  bark; 

The  little  bark  told  it  the  sea  ; 

The  sea  told  it  the  river 

Flowing  down  by  the  lea; 

The  river  told  it  the  maiden's  mother, 

And  so  to  the  maid  it  came  back : 

The  maiden,  as  soon  as  she  heard  it, 

Curst  them  all  for  a  tell-tale  pack. 

"Meadow,  be  barren  for  ever! 

Grass,'  grow  not  henceforth  from  the  mould  of 

thee! 
Flock,  be  devoured  of  the  wolf ! 
Shepherd,  the  Turk  seize  hold  of  thee  ! 
Traveller,  rot  of  the  fever! 
Mariner,  drown  in  the  gulf! 
Bark,  may  the  whirlwind  perplex  thee, 
And  break  thee  against  the  shore ! 
Sea,  may  the  moon  ever  vex  thee  ! 
River,  be  dry  evermore  !  " 


NEGLECTED  FLO  WERS.  1 1 7 


LOVE  CONFERS  NOBILITY. 

He.  Violet,*  little  one  mine  ! 

I  would  love  thee,  bvit  thou  art  so  small. 
She.  Love  me,  my  love,  from  those  heights  of  thine, 
And  I  shall  grow  tall,  so  tall  ! 
The  pearl  is  small,  but  it  hangs  above 
A  royal  brow  and  a  kingly  mind  : 
The  quail  is  little,  little,  my  love, 
But  she  leaves  the  hunter  behind. 


NEGLECTED  FLOWERS. 

Little  violet,  drooping  all  alone,  like  my  own 
Drooping  heart,  I  would  pluck  thee;  but  there's  none, 

no  not  one, 
To   whom   I  dare  to  give  thee  ;    so   I   leave  thee,  and 

pass  on. 
I  would  give  thee  gladly,  gladly,  if  I  dared,  to  Ali  Bey ; 
But  too  proud  (ah,  well-a-day  !)  is  Ali  Bey — so  they  say  ! 
Proud  he  is  !  I  do  not  dare.    Would  he  care,  he,  to  wear 
Any  flower  that  buds  or  blows  ? — save  the  rose,  I  suppose ! 


No  !  rest  there,  and  despair  !    Live  or  die  !    Thou  and  I 
Have   no  chance   to   catch    one  glance  from  his  eye, 
passing  by. 

*  Violet  is  a  pet  name  as  well  as  a  proper  name  in  Servia. 


1 8  GENS  ERIC, 


From  ''CHRONICLES  AND  CHARACTERS:' 


GENSERIC. 

Genseric,   King  of  the  Vandals,   who,   having   laid 

waste  seven  lands, 
From  Tripolis  far  as  Tangier,  from  the  sea  to  the  Great 

Desert  sands, 
Was  lord  of  the  Moor  and  the  African, — thirsting  anon 

for  new  slaughter, 
Sail'd  out  of  Carthage,  and  sail'd  o'er  the  Mediterranean 

water ; 
Plunder'd   Palermo,  seized  Sicily,  sack'd  the   Lucanian 

coast, 
And  paused,  and  said,  laughing,  *' Where  next?" 

Then  there  came  to  the  Vandal  a  Ghost 
From  the  Shadowy  Land  that  lies  hid  and  unknown  in 

the  Darkness  Below. 
And  answer'd,  '*  To  Rome  !  " 

Said  the  King  to  the  Ghost,  *'  And  whose 

envoy  art  thou  ? 
Whence  comest  thou  ?  and  name  me  his  name  that  hath 

sent  thee:  and  say  what  is  thine." 
*'  From  far:  and  His  name  that  hath  sent  me  is  God," 

the  Ghost  answer'd,  "and  mine 


THE  DAUPHIN.  119 

Was  Hannibal  once,  ere  thou  wast :  and  the  name  that 

I  now  have  is  Fate. 
But  arise,  and  be  swift,  and  return.     For  God  waits,  and 

the  moment  is  late." 
And  "  I  go,"  said  the  Vandal.     And  went.     When  at 

last  to  the  gates  he  was  come, 
Loud  he  knock'd  with  his  fierce  iron  fist.      And  full 

drowsily  answer'd  him  Rome. 
''Who  is  it  that  knocketh  so  loud?     Get  thee  hence. 

Let  me  be.     For  'tis  late." 
"Thou  art  wanted,"   cried   Genseric.      "Open!     His 

name  that  hath  sent  me  is  Fate, 
And  mine,  who  knock  late,  Retribution." 

Rome  gave  him  her  glorious  things: 
The  keys  she  had  conquer'd  from  kingdoms:  the  crowns 

she  had  wrested  from  kings : 
And  Genseric  bore  them  away  into  Carthage,  avenged 

thus  on  Rome, 
And  paused,  and  said,  laughing,  '•  Where  next?  " 

And  again  the  Ghost  answer'd  him,  "  Home  ! 
For  now  God  doth  need  thee  no  longer." 

•*  Where  leadest  thou  me  by  the  hand  ?  " 
Cried  the  King  to  the  Ghost.     And  the  Ghost  answer'd, 

•*  Into  the  Shadowy  Land," 


THE  DAUPHIN. 

A  Palace  here,  a  People  there. 

Face  to  face,  i'  the  rainy  air : 

For  the  rain  is  raining  heavily, 

And  the  sick  day  shutting  a  bloodshot  eye. 


THE  DA  UPHIN. 

The  People,  nowhere  a  while  ago, 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  everywhere. 
And,  of  all  in  the  Palace,  none  doth  knoAV 
Where  the  People  may  be,  ere  is  done 
This  last  of  two  disastrous  days. 
Now  waning  fast,  with  watery  rays. 
Quick,  Fancy  !  ere  its  light  be  gone, 
From  out  of  the  many  'tis  darkening  on 
Save  me  a  single  face.     This  one. 

Broider'd  of  satin,  as  best  befits, 
Is  the  gilded  chair  where  the  urchin  sits, 
Whose  grandsires  all  earth's  greatest  were 
In  grandeur,  when  the  grand  were  great. 
For  the  childhood  of  this  child  is  heir 
To  monarchy's  old  age. 

The  late 
Sunbeam,  now  sinking  in  his  hair 
(Weary  of  strife  with  a  rainy  sky) 
Faintly,  solemnly,  lingers  there 
With  a  sorrowful  glory,  soon  to  die: 
As  all  things  must,  some  day,  whene'er 
Time  disavows  them  :  Time  knows  why. 

O'er  kingdoms  twain  thou  wait  born  to  reign, 
Bourbon  child  of  the  Habsburg  mother  ! 
Life's  fairest,  one:  and  earth's,  the  other: 
France,  and  Youth.     Of  all  the  train 
Of  those  the  wondering  world  admires, 
Lords  and  Ladies,  Knights  and  Squires, 
Long-robed  Senator  severe, 
Royal  Duke,  and  Princely  Peer, 
— They  whose  heads  be  Heads  of  France, 


THE  DAUPHJN.  121 

To  whom,  with  a  sullen  countenance, 
Hungry  hundreds  crook  the  knee, 
None  ))ut  boweth  the  head  to  thee, 
Little  child  !     Whose  face  is  one 
Of  a  group  that  all  are  gone. 


For,  since  thou,  O  child,  didst  flee 
(Who  knows  where?)  from  human  sight, 
Never  child,  kingborn,  like  thee, 
Hath  been  born  to  absolute  right : 
Sons  of  kings  no  more  can  be 
Guaranteed,  as  thou  wert  then, 
Of  the  servitude  of  men. 


Hearest  thou  the  sounds  outside  ? 
Hearest  thou  the  sounds  within  ? 
In  the  neighbouring  chamber  Pride 
Stoops,  in  colloquy  with  Fear: 
Mounier's  loyal  cares  begin : 
Prudence  plucks  at  Lafayette  ; 
Orleans  with  sulky  stride 
Is  philosophising  yet: 
Chartres  hath  Louis  by  the  ear: 
Necker  rubs  a  ruminant  chin. 
Outside  in  the  twilight  drear 
Swells  the  ominous  surly  din. 

See  !  the  child  is  playing  now 
With  his  sister's  silky  tresses : 
To  whose  infantine  white  brow 
Lips  as  white  a  mother  presses. 
Are  not  children  safe  from  harm, 
Circled  by  a  mother's  arm  ? 


122  THE  DAUPHIN. 

In  the  chair  where  sits  the  child 

Smiling,  long  since  sat  and  smiled 

Him  men  named  the  "Grand  Monarque. 

Ah,  the  light  is  fading  dark  ! 

Thro'  the  palace  windows  wide 

What  is  still  so  dim  descried 

In  the  pale  persistent  rain  ? 

Is  the  deluge  back  again  ? 

And  what  wreckt  world's  groaning  ark 

There  emits  its  monstrous  train 

To  new-people  earth  with  pain  ? 

Men  or  beasts?     What  are  they  ?     Mark! 

Seest  thou  ?     Hear'st  thou,  little  child  ? 

Haggard  faces  :  women  wild  : 

Men  red-handed,  blood-defiled  : 

Heroism,  and  Hope,  and  Hate, 

Hunger,  Horror,  Wrath,  and  Crime, 

Mingling  in  the  march  of  Fate, 

Life's  grotesque  with  Love's  sublime : 

Ragged  wretches  grim  and  stark, 

Smiling  as  they  never  smiled 

Till  this  moment :  jaw  of  shark 

Gaping  at  a  drowning  ship : 

Eye  of  tiger:  lion's  grip: 

Stormy  starvelings,  smutcht  and  soil'd, 

Thick  thro'  garden,  court,  and  park, 

Round  that  palace  terrace-piled. 

Teeming,  tossing,  trampling  .  .  .  Hark  I 

First  a  growl,  and  then  a  howl, 

Voice  of  a  vast  tormented  soul, 

And  then  a  shrill  heart-breaking  bark, 

And  now  an  immense  murtherous  roar. 

Nearer,  drearer,  more  and  more, — 

The  famisht  wild  beast's  roar  for  bread  ! 


MISERY,  123 


Suddenly  the  child's  hand  ceased 
Its  sport  among  the  tiny  tresses 
Of  the  little  golden  head 
Backward  bent  to  its  caresses; 
All  those  tumbled  curls  released ; 
While  the  pouting  child-lips  said 
"  Mother,  I  am  hungry  I  " 

Cry 

Of  the  poor  man's  child,  supprest 
In  a  People's  starving  breast, 
For  so  many  wicked  years  ! 
Cry,  no  law  could  longer  smother 
In  the  lawless  lifeless  past  ! 
By  what  strange  revenge  of  chance 
Didst  thou  thus  ascend  so  high. 
From  what  depths  of  woe  upcast. 
As  to  smite  the  heart  of  a  mother, 
Heard  in  the  unwilling  ears 
Of  a  listening  Queen  of  France, 
From  a  Dauphin's  lips  at  last  ? 


MISERY. 


I. 

'TwAS  neither  day  nor  night,  but  both  together 
Mix'd  in  a  muddy  snudge  of  London  weather. 
And  the  dull  pouring  of  perpetual 
Dim  rain  was  vague,  and  vast,  and  over  all. 


124  MISERY. 

She  stray'd  on  thro'  the  mud ;  'twas  nothing  new : 
And  thro'  the  rain — the  rain  ?  it  was  mud  too  ! 
The  woman  still  was  young,  and  Nature  meant, 
Doubtless,  she  should  be  fair;  but'that  intent 
Hunger,  in  haste,  had  marr'd,  or  toil,  or  both. 
There  was  no  colour  in  the  quiet  mouth, 
No  light  in  the  dim  eye.     But  a  wan  grace 
Of  perisht  beauty  in  the  thin  young  face 
That  lingered  ghost-like.     There's  a  last  degree 
Of  misery  that  is  sexless  wholly.     She 
Was  woman  still,  for  all  her  wither'd  look, 
Even  as  a  faded  flower  within  a  book, 
Is  still  a  blossom. 

To  the  bridge  she  came 
Just  as  the  foggy  lamps  began  to  flame 
Along  the  loud  dark  streets.     With  eyes  hard  set 
She  stopp'd  there,  lean'd  against  the  parapet, 
And  watch'd  the  sallow  melancholy  stream. 
The  enormous  city,  like  a  madman's  dream. 
Full  of  strange  hummings  and  unnatural  glare, 
Beat  on  her  brain.     The  shadows  whisper'd 

"  There, 
Is  quiet,  and  an  end  of  long  distress. 
Leap  down !  leap  in !     One  anguish  more  or  less 
God  keeps  no  strict  account  of."     But,  to-night, 
She  still  fears  those  dark  whispers.     What  right 
Is  hers  to  die? — a  mother,  and  a  wife. 
Whose  love  hath  given  hostages  to  life  ! 


The  voices  of  the  shadows  make  reply 
"  Woman,  no  right  to  live  is  right  to  die." 
Ah  no,  for  Willie  waits  for  her  at  home, 
III— then  the  little  ones— no  work  has  come, 


MISERY,  125 

Though  long  she  waited,  and  their  rent  is  due 
To-morrow.    Ah,  to-morrow  !     Fiercer  grew 
The  woman's  fretful  cough.     A  drunken  man 
Reel'd  past  her,  stared,  and  down  the  dark  began 
To  troll  a  tavern  stave.      Up  stream'd  again 
The  voices  of  the  shadows,  in  disdain  : 

**  A  mother  ?  and  a  wife  ?     Ill-gotten  names, 
Filch'd  from  earth's  blisses  to  increase  its  sliames  ! 
What  right  have  breadless  mothers  to  give  birth 
To  breadless  babies? "     With  the  exuberant  mirth 
Of  childhood,  three  blithe  ragged  little  elves, 
Rejoicing  in  the  rain  and  in  themselves, 
Ran  by  her.     Then  her  thoughts  began  to  stray 
Far  out  of  London,  many  a  mile  away 
Among  the  meadows:   in  green  Hertfordshire 
From  labyrinthine  lanes  a  grey  church  spire 
Points  heavenward,  and  a  hamlet  laughs  beneath, 
Embower'd  and  haunted  by  the  hawthorn's  breath. 
"  We  were  so  young!  we  loved  each  other  so! 
Ah  yet,  .   .  .  if  one  could  live  the  winter  thro' ! 
And  winter's  worst  is  o'er  in  March  ..." 

Again 
She  wander'd  onwards,  thro'  the  endless  rain 
Among  the  endless  streets,  with  feet  slip-shod. 
The  sky  seem'd  one  vast  blackness  without  God. 
The  roaring  of  the  wheels  began  anew, 
And  London  down  its  dismal  vortex  drew 
This  wandering  minim  of  the  misery 
Of  millions. 

White  beneath  the  filthy  sky 
And  filthy  pavement,  gleam'd  the  Workhouse  Wall. 
She  recognised  it  with  thoughts  augural 
Of  worse  to  come,  and  shudder'd.     'Twas  a  thought 


126  MISERY. 

Only  that  made  her  shudder.      Her  foot  caught, 
However,  in  a  pile  of  something  strange, 
And  wet,  and  soft ;  which  made  that  shudder  change 
To  one  of  physical  terror. 

'Twas  as  tho' 
The  multitudinous  mud,  to  scare  her  so. 
Had  lump'd  itself  into  a  hideous  heap, 
Not  human  sure,  but  living.     With  a  creep 
The  thing  her  foot  had  touch'd  began  to  move, 
And  from  the  inward  to  the  outward  shove 
Layer  after  layer  of  soak'd  and  rotting  rags 
On  each  side,  down  it,  to  the  sloppy  flags 
Beneath  its  headless  bulk  ;  thus  making  space 
For  the  upthrusting  of  the  creature's  face. 
Or  creature's  self,  whate'er  that  might  have  been. 
Whence,  suddenly  emerging,  to  be  seen. 
One  must  imagine,  rather  than  to  see. 
Since  it  look'd  nowhere,  neither  seem'd  to  be 
Surprised,  nor  even  conscious,  there  was  thrust 
(As  tho'  it  came  up  thus  because  it  must 
And  not  because  it  would)  a  human  head. 
With  sexless  countenance,  that  neither  said 
To  man  nor  woman  ..."  I  belong  to  you," 
But  seem'd  a  fearful  mixture  of  the  two. 
The  woman,  only  very  poor  indeed, 
Recoil'd  before  that  creature  past  all  need, 
And  past  all  help,  too,  being  past  all  hope.  * 

For,  stern  and  stark,  against  the  solid  cope 
Of  the  sad,  rainy,  and  enormous  night, 
The  sexless  face  had  fix'd  itself  upright 
At  once,  and,  as  it  were,  mechanically, 
With  no  surprise  ;  but  seeming  to  imply 
That  it  had  done  with  this  world  everywhere, 
And  only  look'd  to  Heaven ;  yet  look'd  not  there 
With  any  sort  of  hope. 


MISERY,  127 

She  shrank  away 
Abasht ;  not  daring,  at  the  first,  to  say 
Such  words  as,  meant  for  comfort,  might  have  been 
Too  much  like  insult  to  that  grim-faced  Queen, 
Or  King,  whiche'er  it  was,  of  Wretchedness. 
Her  own  much  misery  seem'd  so  much  less 
Than  this.     At  last,  she  timidly  drew  near 
And  whisper'd  faintly  in  the  creature's  ear 
•'  Have  you  no  home  ?  "     No  look  even  made  reply, 
Much  less  a  word.     But  on  the  stolid  sky 
The  stolid  face  stared  ever.     "  Are  you  cold  ?  " 
A  sort  of  inward  creepy  movement  roU'd 
The  rain-soak'd  lump.     And  still  the  stolid  face 
Perused  the  stolid  sky.     Perhaps  the  case 
Supposed  was  too  self-evident  to  claim 
More  confirmation  than  what  creeping  came 
To  loosen  those  wet  rags.     The  woman  said 
'*  Are  you  not  hungry? "     Quick  the  sexless  head 
Turn'd,  and  the  fingers  of  a  skeleton  claw 
Rending  its  foul  and  tatter'd  shroud,  you  saw 
— Was  it  a  woman's  breast  ? 


A  sudden  shout 
Of  many  voices  from  the  street  rang  out, 
"  Stop   thief."     A  man  rush'd  by  these  women,— 

rush'd 
So  vehemently  by  them,  that  he  brush'd 
Their  raggedness  together, — as  he  pass'd, 
Dropp'd  something  on  the  pavement, — and  was  fast 
Wrapp'd  in  the  rainy  vapours  of  the  night, 
That,  in  a  moment,  smear'd  him  out  of  sight, 
And,  in  a  moment  after,  let  emerge 


128  MISERY. 

The  trampling  crowd;  which,  all  in  haste  to  urge 
Its  honest  chase,  swept  o'er  that  wretched  twain, 
Regardless,  and  rush'd  on  into  the  rain, 
Leaving  them  both,  upon  the  grimy  flags, 
Bruised,  trampled, — rags  in  collociuy  with  rags. 
And  so, — alone. 


Meanwhile  the  wolfish  face, 
Resettled  to  its  customary  place. 
Was  staring  as  before,  into  the  sky, 
Stolid.     The  other  woman  heavily 
Gather'd  herself  together,  bruised,  in  pain. 
Half  rose  up,  slipp'd  on  something,  and  again 
Sank  feebly  back  upon  her  hand. 

But  now 
What  new  emotion  shakes  her?     Doth  she  know 
What  this  is,  that  her  clutch  upon  the  stone 
Hath  felt,  and,  feeling,  closes  fiercely  on  ? 
This  pocket-book  ?  with  gold  enough  within 
To  feed  .   .  .  Alas  !  and  must  it  be  a  sin 
To  keep  it  ?     Were  it  possible  to  pay 
With  what  its  very  robber  flings  away 
For  bread  .  .  .  bread  !  .  .   .  bread  !  ,  .   .  and  still 

not  starve,  yet  still 
Be  honest !     '*  Were  one  doing  very  ill 
If  ,  .  .   One  should  pray  ...  if  one  could  pray,    « 

that's  sure, 
The  strength  would  come  at  last.     We  are  so  poor  ! 
So  poor  .   .  .  'tis  terrible  !     To  understand 
Such  things,  one  should  be  learn'd,  and  have  at  hand 
Ever  so  many  good  religious  books, 
And  texts,  and  things.      And  then,   one  starves.     It 

looks 
So  like  a  godsend  !"     Crouch'd  against  the  wall, 


MISERY.  129 

She  counted  the  gold  pieces.     "  Food  for  all? 

Us  four  and  that  makes  five."     Again  she  thought, 

Or  tried  to  think,  of  lessons  early  taught, 

Easy  to  learn  once,  in  the  village  school, 

When  to  be  honest  seem'd  the  simple  rule 

For  being  happy ;  and  of  many  a  text 

That  task'd  old  Sundays;  growing  more  perplext, 

As,  more  and  more,  her  giddy  memory  made 

Haphazard  catches  at  the  words. 

"  Who  said 
'  Therefore  I  say  unto  you  '  (ah  !  'twere  sweet) 
*  Have  no  thought  for  your  lives,  what  ye  shall  eat ' 
(If  that  were  possible!) — *nor  what  to  wear?' 
Have  no  thought  (that  should  mean,  then,  have  no 

care !) 
Your  Father  knoweth  of  what  things  ye  need 
Before  ye  ask.     *  The  morrow  shall  take  heed 
For  its  own  things  ! '     And  still  'tis  sure  He  bade 
The  people  pray,  *  Give  us  our  daily  bread,' 
And  elsewhere  .  .  .   *  Ask,  and  ye  shall  have.'"     She 

stopp'd, 
And  trembled.     And  the  tempting  treasure  dropp'd 
From  her  faint  hand.     She  snatch'd  it  up  again, 
And  cried  '  Mine  !  mine  !  be  it  the  Devil's  gain 
Or  God's  good  gift !    Sure,  what  folks  must,  folks  may, 
And  folks  must  live." 

She  gazed  out  every  way 
Along  the  gloomy  street.     In  desert  land 
To  tempted  saints  mankind  was  more  at  hand 
Than  now  it  seem'd  to  this  poor  spirit  pent 
In  populous  city.     Hurriedly,  she  bent 
Above  her  grim  companion,  in  whose  ear 
She  mutter'd,  hof\rse  and  quick  .  .   .   "Make  haste! 
see  here  ! 

715 


30  MISERY. 

Off!  off!"     No  answer.     To  the  stolid  sky 

The  stolid  face  was  turn'd  immovably. 

The  sky  was  dark :  the  face  was  dark.     The  face 

And  sky  were  silent  both :  you  could  not  trace 

The  faintest  gleam  of  light  in  the  dark  look 

Of  either.     Vehemently  the  woman  shook 

That  miserable  mass  of  rags.     It  let 

Itself  be  shaken :  did  not  strive  to  get 

Up,  or  away:  said  nought.     A  worried  rat 

So  lets  itself  be  shaken  by  a  cat 

Or  mastiff,  when  the  vermin's  back,  'tis  clear, 

Is  snapp'd,  and  there's  no  more  to  feel,  or  fear. 

"Oh    haste!"      No    answer.      "It    is   late,    late 

Come!" 
No   answer.      Those  lean  jaws   were   lock'd    and 

dumb. 
Then  o'er  the  living  woman's  face  there  spread 
Death's  hue  reflected. 

"Late!  .   .  .  too  late!"  she  said. 
"  O  Heaven,  to  die  ihtis  /"     With  a  broken  wail 
She  turn'd,  and  fled  fast,  fast.     Fled  whither? 


Pale 

Thro'  the  thick  vagueness  of  the  vaporous  night, 
From  the  dark  alley,  with  a  clouded  light. 
Two  rheumy,  melancholy  lampions  flare. 
They  are  the  eyes  of  the  Police. 

In  there, 
Down  the  dark  archway,  thro'  the  greasy  door, 
Passionately  pushing  past  the  three  or  four 
Complacent  constables  that  cluster'd  round 
A  costermonger,  in  the  gutter  found 
Incapably,  but  combatively,  drunk, 


MISERY.  131 

The  woman  hurried.     Thro'  the  doorway  slunk 
A  peaky  pinch'd-up  child  with  frighten' d  face, 
Important  witness  in  some  murder  case 
About  to  come  before  the  magistrate 
To-morrow.     At  a  dingy  table  sat 
The  slim  Inspector,  spectacled,  severe, 
Rapidly  writing.     In  a  sort  of  fear 
Of  seeing  it  again,  she  shut  her  eyes 
And  flung  it  down  there.     With  sedate  surprise 
The  man  look'd  up.     "  Because  I  do  not  know 
The  owner,  sir"  .  .   .  she  said.      "  A  while  ago 
I  found  it.     And  there's  money  in  it  .  .  .   much, 
Oh,  so  much  money,  sir  I  "     A  hungry  touch 
Of  the  defeated  Tempter  made  her  wince 
To  see  him  count  it.     Such  a  short  while  since 
She,  too,  had  done  the  same. 

"Your  name?  address?  " 
She  gave  them.     Easy,  from  the  last,  to  guess 
Their  wretchedness  who  dwelt  in  such  a  place  ! 
The  shrewd  and  practised  eye  perused  her  face 
Contented,  not  surprised;  for  they  that  see 
Crime  oftenest,  oftenest,  too,  see  honesty 
Where  most  of  us  would  seldom  look  for  it, 
Or  find  it  with  surprise  ...   in  rags,  to  wit. 

'*  Honest  and  poor.     Deserves  a  large  reward. 

No  doubt  there'll  be  one."    "  Ah,  the  times  are  hard, 

So  hard,  God  help  us  all  I  and,  sir,  indeed 

We  are  so  poor.     Two  little  mouths  to  feed. 

If  one  could  only  get  some  work  to  do  1 " 

"Ah  .  .  .  married?   out  of  work?   and   children? 

two? 
Mem.    Let  the  owner  know,  if  found.    Good  night." 
But  still  she  stood  there.     He  had  turn'd  to  write. 


132  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

She  stood,  and  eyed  him  with  a  dreary  eye, 
And  did  not  move.     He  look'd  up  presently. 
"Not  gone  yet?  eh?  what  more?"     "And, 

.  .   .  she  said, 
'•There's   by  the  Workhouse  wall  a  woman 

dead. 
There  was  no  room  within,  sir,  I  suppose. 
There  are  so  many  of  them.     Heaven  knows 
'Tis  hard  for  such  as  we  to  understand 
How  such  things  happen  in  a  Christian  land." 


Her  face  twitch'd,  and  her  cough  grew  fierce  again, 
As  she  pass'd  out  into  the  night  and  rain. 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

From  the  river  Euphrates,  the  river  whose  source  is  in 

Paradise,  far 
As  red  Egypt,  — sole  lord  of  the  land  and  the  sea,  'twixt 

the  eremite  star 
Of  the  orient  desert's  lone  dawn,  and  the  porch  of  the 

chambers  of  rest 
Where  the  great  sea  is  girded  wiih  fire,  and  Orion  returns 

in  the  west, 
As   the   ships    come   and   go   in    grand   silence, — King 

Solomon  reign'd.     And  behold. 
In  that  time  there  was  everywhere  silver  as  common  as 

stones  be,  and  gold 
That  for  plenty  was  'counted   as  silver,  and  cedar  as 

sycamore  trees 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  133 

That  are  found  in  the  vale,  for  abundance.     For  God  to 

the  King  gave  all  these, 
"With  glory  exceeding ;  moreover  all  kings  of  the  earth  to 

him  came, 
Because  of  his  wisdom,  to  hear  him.     So  great  was  King 

Solomon's  fame. 
And,  for  all   this,  the   King's   soul  was  sad.     And   his 

heart  said  within  him,  "  Alas, 
For   man   dies  !    if  his   glory  abidelh,  himself  from  his 

glory  shall  pass. 
I  have  planted  me  gardens  and  vineyards,  and  gotten  me 

silver  and  gold. 
And  my  hand  from  whatever  my  heart  hath  desired  I  did 

not  withhold  : 
And  what  profit  have  I  in  the  works  of  my  hand  which  I 

take  not  away  ? 
I  have  searched  out  wisdom  and  knowledge :  and  what 

do  they  profit  me,  they  ? 
As  the  fool  dieth,  so  doth  the  wise.     What  is  gather'd  is 

scatter'd  again. 
As  the  breath  of  the  beasts,  even  so  is  the  breath  of  the 

children  of  men : 
And  the  same  thing  befalleth  them  both.     And  not  any 

man's  soul  is  his  own." 

This  he  thought  as  he  sat  in  his  garden,  and  watch'd 

the  great  sun  going  down. 
And    "Behold,"  said   the   King,     "in   a  moment   the 

glory  shall  vanish  !  "  Even  then, 
While  he  spake  he  was  'ware  of  a  man  drawing  near  him, 

who  seem'd  to  his  ken 
(By  the  hair  in  its  blackness  like  flax  that  is  burn'd  in  the 

hemp-dresser's  shed, 
And  the  brow's  smoky  hue,  and  the  smouldering  eyeball 

more  livid  than  lead) 


134  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

As  the  sons  of  the  land  that  lies  under  the  sword  of  the 

Cherub  whose  wing 
Wraps   in  wrath    the  shut  gateways  of  Paradise.     He, 

being  come  to  the  King, 
Seven   times  made   obeisance   before   him.     To  whom, 

*' What  art  thou,"  the  King  cried, 
"That   thus  unannounced  to  King  Solomon  comest?" 

The  man,  spreading  wide 
The  palm  of  his  right  hand,  show'd  in  it  an  apple  yet 

bright  from  the  Tree 
In  whose  stem  springs  the  life  never-failing  that  Sin  lost 

to  Adam,  when  he, 
Tasting  knowledge  forbidden,  found  death  in  the  fruit  of 

it.  .  .  So  doth  the  Giver 
Evil  gifts  to  the  evil  apportion.     And    "Hail!    let  the 

King  live  for  ever !  " 
Bowing  down  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch,  and  laughingly, 

even  as  one 
Whose  meaning,  in  joy  or  in  jest,  hovers  hid  'twixt  the 

word  and  the  tone, 
Said  the  stranger  (as  lightly  the  apple  he  laid  in  the  hand 

of  the  King), 
"From  between  the  four  rivers  of  Eden,  Jehovah  hath 

sent  me,  to  bring 
To  his  servant  King  Solomon,  even  to  my  lord  that  on 

Israel's  throne 
He  hath  'stablisht,  this  fruit  from    the   Tree  in  whose 

branch  Life  abideth:  for  none 
That    hath    tasted    this    apple    shall    die."      Then   he 

vanish'd.     The  monarch  perused 
The  strange  fruit  that,  alluring  his  lip,  in  his  hand  lay 

untasted.     He  mused — 
"  Life  is  good:  but  not  life  for  life's  sake.     Life  eternal, 

eternally  young, 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIPE.  I35 

That,  indeed,  were  a  life  to  be  prized ;  when  the  jubilant 

spirit  is  strong, 
When  in   veins  unfatigued  the  still  bountiful  pulses   of 

happiness  beat, 
And  the  dews  of  the  dawn   of  Desire  on  the  roses  of 

Beauty  are  sweet ! 
Dut  what  gain  were  in  living  forever,  when  life  is  unfit 

to  engage 
The  sad    care   it   yet    craves?     Life   eternal,    eternally 

wedded  to  Age? 
When   the  hand  saith    '/  did^'    not    */   will  do,'   the 

heart  saith  '  It  waSy"  not  * '  Twill  be^ 
Then  too  late  is  the  gift  of  Forever,  and  too  late  comes 

this  apple  to  me." 
He  arose.     And  wherever  the  sunlight  had  been,  there 

was  moonlight,  and  deep 
In   their   odorous  shadows   the   myrtle    and    rose   were 

already  asleep. 
As,  with  difficult  steps,  he  went  feebly,  by  garden  and 

terrace  and  court, 
On  his  sceptre  he  lean'd;  for  that  sceptre  to  him  was  a 

staff  for  support, 
Tho'  to  others  a  rod  of  dominion.     And  so  to  his  House 

he  return'd. 
There,    in    ivory    chambers    sweet    lamps,    that    were 

scented  with  cinnamon,  burn'd, 
And   innumerous  columns,    'twixt   curtains  of  crimson, 

stood  gather'd  in  groves 
Thick  as  trees  of  the  forest  in  Libanus  stand,  where  the 

wind,  as  it  moves. 
Whispers,     "  I,    too,    am    Solomon's    servant !  " — huge 

trunks  hid  in  garlands  of  gold. 
On  whose  tops  the  skill'd  sculptors  of  Sidon  had  granted 

men's  gaze  to  behold 


136  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

How  the  phoenix  that  sits  on  the   cedar's  lone  summit 

'mid  fragrance  and  fire, 
Ever  dying  and  living,  hath  loaded  with  splendours  her 

funeral  p)'re ; 
How  the  stork  builds  her  nest  on  the  pine-top  ;  the  date 

from  the  palm -branch  depends; 
And  the  shaft  of  the  blossoming  aloe  soars  crowning  the 

life  which  it  ends. 
And,  from  hall  on  to  hall  pacing  slowly,  the  King  mused 

.   .   .    "  O  fair  Shulamite ! 
Thy  beauty  is  brighter  than  starlight  on  Hebron  when 

Hebron  is  bright, 
Thy  sweetness  is  sweeter  than  Carmel.     The  King  rules 

the  nations;  but  thou, 
Thou  rulest  the  King,  my  Beloved." 

So  murmur'd  King  Solomon  low 
To  himself,   as  he  pass'd  thro'  the  portal  of  porphyry, 

that  dripp'd,  as  he  pass'd, 
From  the  myrrh-sprinkled  wreaths  on  the  locks  and  the 

lintels ;  and  enter'd  at  last, 
Still  sighing,  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  contrived  for 

repose  and  delight. 
Where  the  beautiful  Shulamite  slumber'd.     And  straight- 
way, to  left  and  to  right, 
Bowing  down  as  he  enter'd,  the  Spirits  in  bondage  to 

Solomon,  there 
Keeping  watch  o'er  his  love,  sank  their  swords,  spread 

their  wings,  and  evanish'd  in  air. 
The  King  with  a  kiss  woke  the  sleeper.     And,  showing 

the  fruit  in  his  hand, 
"  Behold !  this  was  brought  me  erewhile  by  one  coming," 

he  said,  **  from  the  land 
That  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub  'twas  pluckt  by 

strange  hands  from  the  tree 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  137 

Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tasteth  shall  die  not.     And  there- 
fore I  give  it  to  thee, 
Best  beloved  of  the  daughters  of  women  !     The  garment, 

tho'  broider'd  with  gold, 
Wears  away  as  the  moth  feeds  upon   it.     So  I,  in  my 

glory,  grow  old. 
But  all  thine,  at  the  best  and  the  brightest,  thou  Spirit 

of  Beauty  and  Bliss, 
Are  the  grace  and  the  gladness  of  youth.     Wherefore 

thine,  and  thine  only,  be  this ! 
Keep  the  gift  I  resign,  never  losing  the   freshness  and 

sweetness  of  life. 
And   of  women   forever    the   fairest  shall  still  be   King 

Solomon's  wife ! " 
And  he  dropp'd  in  her  bosom  the  apple. 

But  wistfully,  when  he  was  gone, 
And  the  beautiful  Shulamite,  eyeing  the  gift  of  the  King, 

sat  alone, 
"Youth  and  beauty,"  she  mused,  "are  but  gifts  to  be 

prized  for  the  love  they  inspire, 
And  forever  to  love  and  be  loved — that,  no  doubt,  were  a 

life  to  desire. 
But  I  love  neither  beauty  nor  youth  if  unloved  by  my 

loved  one  they  be, 
For  in  life  is  no  loveliness  save  to  be  loved,  Azariah,  by 

thee!" 
Then  she  summon'd,  to  veil  her,  the  Spirits  in  bondage 

to  Solomon's  ring 
(For  that  talisman  dread,  for  a  toy,  had  been  given  to 

her  by  the  King), 
And  her  form  from   the  vision  of  mortals  they  veil'd. 

Thro'  the  streets,  unespied, 
She  went  forth  to  the  door  of  the  house  of  the  Prince 

Azariah,  and  cried 


138  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

"  It  is  I  !     Dost  thou  hear  my  heart  beating?     Thy  love 

is  more  comely  than  gold, 
And  more  precious  to  me  is  thy  kiss  than  a  life  that  can 

never  grow  old !  " 
Azariah    arose,    and    unbolted    the    door    to    the    fair 

Shulamite. 
"  O  my  queen,  what  dear  folly  is  this?     For  as  spies  are 

the  stars  of  the  night, 
And  at  that  which  is  done  in  the  chamber  the  leak  in  the 

housetop  shall  peep, 
And  the  hand  of  a  king  smiteth  hard,  and  the  eyes  of  a 

king  never  sleep !  " 
But   the  beautiful  Shulamite  answer'd,  "Nay,  fear  not, 

for  lo,  what  I  bring ! 
'Tis  the  fruit  of  the  tree  that  in  Eden  Jehovah  hides  under 

the  wing 
Of  the  Cherub  that  chased  away  Adam.     And  who  of 

this  apple  doth  taste. 
He  shall  live  and  not  die.     Wherefore  fear   thou    not 

death!  for  the  gift  that  in  haste 
I  have  brought  thee  is  life  everlasting."     But  soon  as  the 

Prince  was  alone 
With  her  gift,  as  he  lean'd  from  the  lattice  he  mutter'd, 

**  Tis  well !  she  is  gone  !  " 
From  his  lattice  he  heard  down  the  streets  of  the  city  the 

tripping  of  feet 
And  the  voices  of  youths  running  after.     And  '*Z?/i?," 

sang  a  wanton,  '*  is  stveet 
Long  as  lasts  t lie  good  mimtteJ'^     "  Not  long,"  sigh'd  the 

Prince,  *'  doth  the  good  minute  last! 
What  of  life,  when  it  goes?"     Then  he  caught  up  the 

apple,  and  forth  with  it  pass'd 
To  the  house  of  the  harlot  Egyptian,  and  mused  as  he 

went — *•  Life  is  good 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  139 

Just  so  long  as  the  joy  of  it  lasts,  while  a  man  doeth  that 

which  he  would, 
Goelh  whither  he  listeth,   and  pleaseth  himself  be  the 

chance  what  it  may. 
Shall  I  care  to  be  loved  by  a  queen,  if  her  love  with  my 

freedom  I  pay? 
No,  the  May-be  for  me,  not  the  Must-be!  The  field  where 

the  wild  blossom  springs, 
Not  the  rose  that  is  guarded  by  dragons  to  brighten  the 

precincts  of  kings ! 
Open,  open,  thou  dark-eyed  beguiler  of  darkness!" 

Uprose  to  his  knock, 
Light  of  foot,  the  lascivious  Egyptian,  and  lifted  the 

latch  from  the  lock, 
And  open'd,  and  led  in  the  prince  to  her  chamber,  and 

pour'd  him  the  wine 
Wherewith  she  first  brighten'd  the  moist  lips  that  mur- 

mur'd,  •'  Ha,  fool!     Art  thou  mine? 
I  am  thine.      This  will  last  for  an  hour."      And  then, 

humming  strange  words  from  a  song 
Sung  by  maidens  in  Memphis  the  old,  when  they  bore 

the  Crown 'd  Image  along, 
She  sprang  loose  from  his  clasp,  and  danced  round  him. 

"  Say,  fool.     "What  good  gift  dost  thou  bring? " 
Azariah  toss'd  to  her  the  apple,  and  answer'd,  *'  A  gift 

for  a  king! " 
•'Go   to,  it  is  nought,  fool!      An   apple."     "But   an 

apple  that  comes  from  the  Tree 
Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  for  ever,     I  care  not. 

I  give  it  to  thee. 
Nay,  witch!  'tis  worth  more  than  the  shekels  of  gold 

thou  hast  charm'd  from  my  purse. 
Take  it.      Eat.      Life  is  sweeter  than  knowledge:  and 

Eve,  thy  sly  mother,  fared  worse. " 


I40  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE, 

"Fool,    why    dost    thou    laugh?"    and    he    answer'd, 

"  Because,  witch,  it  tickles  my  brain 
Intensely  to  think  that  all  we,  that  be  Something  while 

yet  we  remain, 
We,  the  princes  of  people — ay,  even  the  King's  self — 

shall  die  in  our  day, 
And  thou,  that  art  Nothing,  shall  sit  on  our  graves,  with 

our  grandsons,  and  play." 
But  anon,  when  alone,  with  the  fruit  in  her  hanJ  still 

untasted,  perusing 
Her  mysterious  prize,  the  dark  woman,  perplext  by  sad 

doubts,  fell  a  musing, 
And  she  thought.  ..."  What  is  Life  without  Honour? 

And  what  can  the  life  that  I  live 
Give  to  me,  I  shall  care  to  continue,  not  caring  for  aught 

it  can  give? 
I?     The  man  call'd  me  Nothing.     He  said  well.     The 

great  in  their  glory  must  go, 
And  shall  I  go  on  living  forever  a  life  that  is  shameful 

and  low?" 
Her  tears  fell.     They  fell  on  the  apple.      "  'Tis  a  gift  for 

a  king,"  did  he  say? 
Ay,  a  king's  life  is  life  as  it  should  be — a  life  like  the 

light  of  the  day 
Wherein  all  that  liveth  rejoiceth.     For  whom  then  this 

gift  ?     Not  for  me, 
Nor  the  fool  Azariah  that  sold  it  for  folly.     The  King ! 

only  he, — 
Only   he    hath    the    life   that's   worth    living   for   ever. 

Whose  life,  not  alone 
Is  the  life  of  the  King,  but  the  life  of  the  many  made 

mighty  in  one. 
To  the  King  will  I  carry  this  apple.     And  he  (for  the 

hand  of  a  king 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  141 

Is  a  fountain  of  hope)  in  his  handmaid  shall  honour  the 

gift  that  I  bring. 
And  men  for  this  deed  shall  esteem  me,  with  Rahab  by 

Israel  praised, 
As  first  among  those  who,  tho'  lowly,  their  shame  into 

honour  have  raised." 
So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  thro'  the  city.     And  with 

her  the  apple  she  bore 
In  her  bosom :   and  stood  'mid  the  multitude,   waiting 

therewith  in  the  door 
Of  the  hall  where  the  King,  to  give  judgment,  ascended 

at  rooming  his  throne: 
And,  kneeling  there,  cried,  "  Let  the  King  live  for  ever ! 

Behold,  I  am  one 
Whom  the  vile   of  themselves   count   the  vilest.       But 

great  is  the  grace  of  my  lord. 
And  now  let  my  lord  on  his  handmaid  look  down,  and 

give  ear  to  her  word. 
For  on  me  was   this  apple  bestow'd,   that   thy  servant 

should  eat  and  not  die. 
But  I  said   to  the  soul  of  thy  servant,    '  Not  so.      For 

behold,  what  am  I, 
That  the  King,  in  his  glory  and  gladness,  should  cease 

from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Whilst  I,  that  am  least  of  his  slaves,  in  my  shame  and 

abasement  live  on?' 
For  not  sweet  is  the  life  of  thy  servant,  unless  to  thy 

servant,  my  lord 
Stretch  his  hand,  and  show  favour.     For  surely  the  frown 

of  a  king  is  a  sword, 
But  the  smile  of  the  king  is  as  honey  that  flows  from  the 

clefts  of  the  rock, 
And  his  grace  is  as  dew  that  from  Horeb  descends  on  the 

heads  of  the  flock : 


142  LAST  WORDS.      ' 

As  the  grapes  of  the  vines  of  En-Gedi  are  favours  that 

fall  from  his  hands, 
And  as  towers  on  the  hill-tops  of  Shenir  the  throne  of 

King  Solomon  stands. 
But  how  shall  one  lose  what  he  hath  not?     Who  hath, 

let  him  keep  what  he  hath. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  King  give  this  apple." 

Then  great  was  King  Solomon's  wrath, 
And   he  rose,  rent  her  garment,  and  cried,   '*  Woman, 

whence  came  this  apple  to  thee  ?" 
But  when  he  was  'ware  of  the  truth,  then  his  heart  was 

awaked,  and  said  he, 
"  From  the  Angel  of  Death  came  the  gift.     Life  rejects 

it.     Jehovah  is  just. 
Let  man's  spirit  to  Him  whence  it  cometh  return,  and  his 

dust  to  the  dust!  " 


LAST  WORDS. 

OF   A   SENSITIVE   SECOND-RATE   POET, 

Will,  are  you  sitting  and  watching  there  yet?     And  I 

know,  by  a  certain  skill 
That  grows  out  of  utter  wakefulness,  the  night  must  be 

far  spent,  Will: 
For,  lying  awake  so  many  a  night,  I  have  learn'd  at  last 

to  catch 
From  the  crowing  cock,  and  the  clanging  clock,  and  the 

sound  of  the  beating  watch, 
A  misty  sense  of  the  measureless  march  of  Time,  as  he 

passes  here, 


LAST  WORDS.  143 

Leaving  my  life  behind  him ;  and  I  know  that  the  dawn 

is  near. 
But  you  have  been  watching  three  nights,  Will,  and  you 

look'd  so  wan  to-night, 
I  thought,  as  I  saw  you  sitting  there,  in  the  sad  mono- 
tonous light 
Of  the   moody  night-lamp  near  you,  that  I  could  not 

choose  but  close 
My  lids  as  fast,  and  lie  as  still,  as  tho'  I  lay  in  a  doze : 
For,  I  mused,  *'  He  will  think  I  am  dreaming,  and  then 

he  may  steal  away. 
And  sleep  a  little:  and  this  will  be  well."     And  truly,  I 

dream'd,  as  I  lay 
Wide  awake,  but  all  as  quiet,  as  tho',  the  last  office  done. 
They  had  streak'd  me  out  for  the  grave.  Will,  to  which 

they  will  bear  me  anon. 
Dream'd;  for  old  things  and  places  came  dancing  about 

my  brain. 
Like  ghosts  that  dance  in   an   empty  house:    and   my 

thoughts  went  slipping  again 
By  green  back-ways  forgotten  to  a  stiller  circle  of  time, 
Where  violets,  faded  for  ever,  seem'd  blowing  as  once  in 

their  prime: 
And  I  fancied  that  you  and  I,  Will,  were  boys  again  as 

of  old. 
At  dawn  on  the  hill-top  together,  at  eve  in  the  field  by 

the  fold ; 
Till  the  thought  of  this  was  growing  too  wildly  sweet  to 

be  borne. 
And  I  oped  mine  eyes,  and  turn'd  me  round,  and  there, 

in  the  light  forlorn, 
I  find  you  sitting  beside  me.     But  the  dawn  is  at  hand,  I 

know. 
31eep  a  little.     I  shall  not  dip  to-night.     You  may  leavg 

fue.     Go. 


144  LAST  WORDS. 

Eh!  is  it  time  for  the  drink?  must  you  mix  it?  it  does 

me  no  good. 
But  thanks,  old  friend,  true  friend  !   I  would  live  for  your 

sake,  if  I  could. 
Ay,  there  are  some  good  things  in  life,  that  fall  not  away 

with  the  rest. 
And,  of  all  best  things  upon  earth,  I  hold  that  a  faithful 

friend  is  the  best. 
For  woman.  Will,  is  a  thorny  flower:  it  breaks,  and  we 

bleed  and  smart: 
The  blossom  falls  at  the  fairest,  and  the  thorn  runs  into 

the  heart. 
And  woman's  love  is  a  bitter  fruit;  and,  however  he  bite 

it,  or  sip, 
There's  many  a  man  has  lived  to  curse  the  taste  of  that 

fruit  on  his  lip. 
But  never  was  any  man  yet,  as  I  ween,  be  he  whosoever 

he  may, 
That  has  known  what  a  true  friend  is,  Will,  and  wishVl 

that  knowledge  away. 
You  were  proud  of  m.y  promise,   faithful  despite  of  my 

fall, 
Sad  when  the  world  seem'd  over-sweet,  sweet  when  the 

world  turn'd  gall. 


O  woman-eyes  that  have  smiled  and  smiled,  O  woman- 
lips  that  have  kist 

The  life-blood  out  of  my  heart,  why  thus  for  ever  do  you 
persist, 

Pressing  out  of  the  dark  all  round,  to  bewilder  my  dying 
hours 

With  your  ghostly  sorceries  brew'd  from  the  breath  of 
your  poison -flowers  ? 

Still,  tho'  the  idol  be  broken,  I  see  at  their  ancient  revels, 


LAST  WORDS,  145 

The  riven  altar  around,  come  dancing  the  selfsame  devils. 
Lente  currite,  lente  currite,  noctis  equil 
Linger  a  little,  O  Time,  and  let  me  be  saved  ere  I  die ! 
How  many  a  night  'neath  her  window  have  I  walk'd  in 

the  wind  and  rain, 
Only  to  look  at  her  shadow  fleet  over  the  lighted  pane ! 
Alas!    'twas   the  shadow  that  rested,  'twas  herself  that 

fleeted,  you  see, 
And  now  I  am  dying,  I  know  it: — dying,  and  where  is 

she? 
Dancing    divinely,    perchance,    or,    over   her  soft    harp 

strings, 
Using  the  past  to  give  pathos  to  the  little  new  song  that 

she  sings. 
Bitter?  I  dare  not  be  bitter  in  the  few  last  hours  left  to 

live. 
Needing  so  much  forgiveness,  God  grant  me  at  least  to 

forgive. 
Not  to  know  vice  is  virtue,  not  fate,  however  men  rave  : 
And,  next  to  this  I  hold  that  man  to  be  but  a  coward  and 

slave 
Who  bears  the  plague-spot  about  him,  and,  knowing  it, 

shrinks  or  fears 
To  brand  it  out,  tho'  the  burning  knife  should  hiss  in  his 

heart's  hot  tears. 
Yet  oh  !  the  confident  spirit  once  mine,  to  dare  and  to 

do! 
Take  the  world  into  my  hand,  and  shape  it,  and  make  it 

anew : 
Gather  all  men  in  my  purpose,  men  in  their  darkness  and 

dearth. 
Men  in  their  meanness  and  misery,  made  of  the  dust  of 

the  earth, 
Mould  them  afresh,  and  make  out  of  them  Man,  with  his 

spirit  sublime, 

716 


146  LAST  WORDS. 

Man,  the  great  heir  of  Eternity,  dragging  the  conquests 

of  Time ! 
Therefore  I   mingled   among   them,   deeming   the   poet 

should  hold 
All  natures  saved  in  his  own,  as  the  world  in  the  ark 

was,  of  old. 


Triple  fool  in  my  folly  I  purblind  and  impotent  worm, 
Thinking  to  move  the  world,  who  could  not  myself  stand 

firm  ! 
Cheat  of  a  worn-out  trick,  as  one  that  on  shipboard  roves 
Wherever  the  wind  may  blow,  still  deeming  the   con- 
tinent moves. 
Friend,  lay  your  hand  in  my  own,   and  swear  to  me, 

when  you  have  seen 
My  body  borne  out  from  the  door,  ere  the  grass  on  my 

grave  shall  be  green, 
You  will  burn  every   book   I   have   written.       And   so 

perish,  one  and  all, 
Each  trace  of  the  struggle  that  fail'd  with  the  life  that  I 

cannot  recall. 
Where  was  the  fault?     Was  it  strength  fell  short !     And 

yet  (I  can  speak  of  it  now) 
How  my  spirit  sang  like  the  resonant  nerve  of  a  warrior's 

battle  bow 
When  the  shaft  has  leapt  from  the  string,  what  time,  her 

first  bright  banner  unfurl'd, 
Song  alm'd  her  arrowy  purpose  in  me  sharp  at  the  heart 

of  the  world  ! 
Comfort  me  not.     For  if  aught  be  worse  than  failure 

from  over-stress 
Of  a  life's  prime  purpose,  it  is  to  sit  down  content  with  a 

little  success. 
Talk  not  of  genius  baffled.     Genius  is  master  of  man. 


LAST  WORDS.  147 

Genius  does  what  it  must,  and  Talent  does  what  it  can. 
And  pity  me  not.     For  death  to  me  is  a  boon  far  better 

than  fame. 
It  is  only  ceasing  to  die,  Will,  of  a  life  that  has  miss'd 

its  aim. 
From  another  life,  in  another  world,  new  aims  must  arise. 

And  there 
New  efforts'  sweetest  reward  may  be  the  redemption  of 

failure  here, 


148  EPITHALAMIUM, 


From  ''ORVAL'' 


EPITHALAMIUM. 


Ere  the  moon  is  washt  down  by  the  wave  in  the  west 

(O  thought  dread  and  sweet  !), 
Ere  the  nightingale,  roused  by  the  moon,  is  at  rest, 

They  shall  meet ! 
They,   the  twain,    who   were  taught  by  the   prescient 

Power 
That  gave  sweets  to  the  bee,  giving  scents  to  the  flower, 
To  find  in  each  other,  what  few  find  out, 
The  one  thing  sweet  in  a  world  so  sour, 
The  one  thing  sure  in  a  life  of  doubt  ! 
They  shall  meet,  oh,  where  ? 
They  the  Strong  and  the  Fair, 
In  what  hour,  not  of  time,  in  what  land,  not  of  earth? 
Where  to  breathe  is  to  kindle,  and  being  is  birth. 
Where  the  soul  and  the  sense  are  one  feeling  alone. 
As  the  heaven  and  the  moonlight  are  two  and  yet  one  ; 
When  the  eyes  from  the  lips 

Drink  delicious  eclipse, 
Wliile,  in  rose-braided  car, 

Love,  free  lord  of  his  own, 
To  the  fair,  the  afar, 


EPITHALAMIUM,  149 

The  unseen,  the  unknown, 

Thro'  faint  depths  of  dim  fire 
Is  drawn,  with  tugg'd  rein, 

By  the  steeds  of  Desire, 
In  strong  triumph  amain, 
'Tvvixt  the  twilit  courts  of  the  orient  porch 

Of  the  Dawn  of  Life  ;  where  the  bashful  train 

Of  those  tender,  timorous  Spirits,  that  are 
The  bearers  bright  of  his  blushing  torch, 

Are  waiting  the  will  of  the  Morning  Star, 

To  unfasten  the  portals  the  Destinies  bar 
On  the  brave,  bold  world,  that  is  yet  unborn, 

Of  the  resolute  race  that  is  yet  to  be, 
When  the  sunrise  of  Freedom,  in  Truth's  fair  morn, 

Shall  be  solemn  and  bright  over  land  and  sea, 
And  all  earth  be  one  nation,  whose  name  is  borne, 

Trampling  tyranny,  scorning  scorn. 
By  the  gentle,  the  just,  and  the  free  1 


ISO  ODE  TO  A  STARLING, 


From  ''MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS:' 


ODE  TO  A  STARLING. 

Spring's  pilot,  and  her  nimblest-wingM  darling, 
Despite  the  arrowy-flighted  Swallow 
That  in  thy  wake  doth  follow, 
To  rob  thee  of  renown,  intrepid  Starling  I 

Full  weary  of  old  Winter,  sick  of  sorrow, 
As  I  lay  a-drowsing  in  the  dark  at  dawn  of  day, 

Seeking  to  shut  from  sight  a  sunless  morrow, 
And  suing  to  assist  me  flitting  Sleep,  that  would  not 
stay, 
Out  of  dim  lands  remote 
Came  a  hoarse  but  happy  note  ; 
And  then  a  scatter'd  rustling  loud  beyond  the  lattice 

eaves 
Of  jostled  wings,  a-riot  in  the  rare  and  rainy  leaves. 
Surely,  surely,  saucy  angel 
Of  the  Virgin  Spring's  evangel, 
'Twas  the  sound  of  thee  and  thine 
Singing  songs  yet  somewhat  hoarser 

For  the  sea  wind  and  the  brine 
Breathed  and  braved  by  each  precursor 
Of  May's  azure  and  sunshine. 


ODE  TO  A  STARLING.  151 

I,  at  least,  thy  voice  believing, 

And,  in  responsive  mood, 
Religiously  receiving 

Its  prophecies  of  good, 
All  the  morn  long  have  been  roaming 

The  wet  field  and  wintry  wood, 
The  burthen  of  an  old  song  humming  : — 
'*  The  starlings  are  come  !  and  merry  May, 
And  June,  and  the  white  thorn,  and  the  hay. 
And  the  violet,  and  then  the  rose,  and  all  sweet  things 
are  coming ! " 
But  O  ill-welcom'd  bird  I 

Thy  most  impassion'd  lays 
By  heedless  ears  are  heard. 
Thou  comest  before  thy  time,  and  unattended. 
The  sluggard  Spring  delays 

To  justify  thy  word  ; 
And  rancorous  Winter  stays 
To  wreak  on  thee  the  wrath  of  frosts  and  rains  offended  ; 
Whilst  thou  of  sunny  days 
Still  singest,  undeterr'd 
By  scorn  or  stinted  praise, 
Befriending  thus  a  land  that  leaves  thee  unbefriended. 
Envy  not  thou  Ceyx,  or  Halcyon, 

Their  sultry  seas,  fair-meadow'd  lands  of  fable, 
And  foamless  isles,  the  tempest  strikes  not  on. 
That  sleep  in  harbours  green  and  hospitable ; 
For  thou,  within  thyself,  despite  foul  weather, 

Hast  golden  calms  and  glories 
Like  windless  lights  where  wizards  meet  together 

On  stormy  promontories. 
Leave  to  the  soft  luxurious  Nightingale 

Her  amorous  revels  and  embower' d  delights 
Where,  over  lush  rose  leaves  the  balmy  gale 
Is  breathing  low  thro'  blue  midsummer  nights. 


152  ODE  TO  A  STARLING. 

Thine  is  the  bardic  chant,  the  battle  strain, 

The  strenuous  impulse  thine, 
Antagonising  wind  and  sleety  rain 

In  the  tough-headed  pine. 
Leave  to  the  Lark  his  lucid  chariotings 

And  mirth  Memnonian,  when  auroral  skies 
With  shining  azure  bathe  his  lyric  wings. 

Thy  realm  beyond  to-morrow's  orient  lies. 
Safe  from  the  reach  of  this  anarchic  time, 

Where  unreveal'd  primroses, 
And  many  a  lurking  love,  and  budding  rhyme 
Each  note  of  thine  discloses. 

Thy  friends  are  yet  unborn ; 

The  earliest  violet, 
The  first  bud  on  the  thorn, 

The  first  M'an  cowslip,  wet 
With  tears  of  the  first  morn 

That  doth  such  joys  beget. 
Thy  foes  are  yet  a-dying  ; 

Ragged-skirted  rains, 
Winds  at  random  flying 

Fast  with  cloudy  manes. 
And  the  last  snows,  lying 

Lost  on  chilly  plains. 
Grief  and  Joy  together 

Colloquise  with  thee  : 
Sad  and  sunny  weather 
Shift  around  the  tree 
Where,  not  heeding  either, 
Thou  dost  carol  free 
A  music  over-winging 
On  laughter-lifted  pinions^ 
Earth's  bleakness  and  despair. 
Like  old  Amphion's  singing. 
To  raise  serene  dominions 


THE  LA  V  OF  THE  COCK.  153 

And  fashion  from  void  air, 

Stirr'd  by  the  nimbly-sounding  minions 
Of  its  mysterious  mandate,  everywhere 

Those  blossomy  battlements, 

And  florid  tents, 
Where,  in  due  time,  shall  dwell 

All  the  delicious  sights,  and  sounds,  and  scents 
Of  Spring's  green  citadel. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  COCK. 


Who  will  awaken  the  Lay  of  the  Cock  ? 
Who  will  praise  his  prowess  and  power  ? 
Who  will  sing  of  his  virtues  seven  ? 


If  there  be  any  of  mortal  stock 

Worthy  to  say  *'  I  will  waken  that  lay," 

Uplifted  high  on  a  lofty  tower 

Where  the  light  is  holy  and  fresh  from  heaven, 

In  a  white  robe  stoled,  with  a  harp  of  gold, 

Loud,  in  the  hearing  of  gods  and  men. 

Let  him  smite  his  harp  at  the  matin  hour 

To  a  note  like  jubilant  Memnon's,  when 

That  strong  marmorean  mouth  of  his 

From  the  rapturous  east  a  reorient  ray 

Of  his  mother's  fairest  effulgences 

Did,  with  a  mystical  fiery  touch. 

To  a  sudden  ethereal  melody  wake. 


154  THE  LA  V  OF  THE  COCK. 

Alas,  that  in  me  is  no  music  such 

As  would  then  be  heard  for  my  hero's  sake ! 

But  albeit  unfit,  magnanimous  bird, 

Thy  bard  to  be,  since  slumbering  still 

Are  the  worthier  singers,  here,  undeterr'd 

By  mine  own  unworth,  and  my  want  of  skill, 

I  make  essay,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

In  honour  of  thine  to  awaken  the  lay. 

And,  as  tho'  I  stood  on  a  lofty  tower 

Where  the  light  is  holy  and  fresh  from  heaven, 

In  a  white  robe  stoled,  with  a  harp  of  gold. 

To  hymn  high  praise  of  thy  prowess  and  power, 

And  do  homage  in  song  to  thy  virtues  seven. 


III. 

Handmaid  of  heroes,  Martial  Muse  ! 

Bring  me  hither  a  burnisht  shield, 

Broad  as  the  targe  of  Idomeneus  * 

When  forth  he  strode  to  the  battlefield! 

By  the  mighty  spirits  of  warriors  old 

Let  the  orb  of  that  mighty  shield  be  borne : 

And  roll  me  hither,  thro*  heavens  that  hold 

High  pageant  aglow  with  the  triumphing  Morn, 

Aurora's  chariots,  whose  chargers  bold 

The  youngest-born  of  the  Hours  adorn 

With  housing  of  glory  and  harness  of  gold  ! 

Then,  ere  the  ardours  of  sunrise  faint. 

Or  ever  a  gorgeous  cloud  grow  wan, 

Dip  me  the  pencil  in  each  bright  dye 

Of  that  dazzling  pomp,  that  I  may  paint 

Whom  but  the  hero  that  marcheth  by 

In  robes  of  honour  regalian, 

*  A  cock  was  painted  on  the  shield  of  Idomeneus. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  COCK.  155 

Mail'd  and  mantled,  with  crest  on  high, 
The  valorous  marshal  of  Day's  blithe  van. 


And  all  the  while,  by  down  and  dale 
"Where  dews  are  fresh  and  light  is  clear, 
From  far  away  i'  the  buxom  gale 
Let  brave-mouth'd  bronzen  music  come 
Of  chiding  trump  and  thunderous  drum. 
Thrilling  the  heart  of  the  man  who  may  hear, 
Like  the  moving  on  of  some  marvellous  tale 
Of  chivalry,  joust,  and  knightly  cheer. 


With  royal  train,  whose  sheeny  stain 

Is  sable  shot  with  emerolde; 

Breastplate  broad  of  brightest  gold; 

Scarlet  crest,  thick  turreted 

As  Cybele's,  on  stately  head ; 

Beard  of  ruddier  tinct  than  is 

(If  old  legends  lie  not)  his 

Who,  full-arm'd,  is  slumbering  still 

Hid  in  the  heart  of  Salzburg  hill ; 

Shining  cuishes,  greaves  of  steel ; 

Spleenful  spur  on  knightly  heel ; 

Who  is  he  doth  lightly  leap. 

Flashing  forth  o'  the  night's  dim  tent 

When  the  dew  is  deep,  and  the  lark  asleep, 

Orient  arms  in  the  Orient  ? 

VI. 

It  is  the  guardian,  gallant  and  gay, 

Of  the  great  world's  drowsy  conscience.     Day 


156        THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  COCK, 

By  day  he  doth  in  the  twilight  wan 
Rise  up,  and,  with  resonant  roundelay, 
From  the  cloven  caverns  of  dream  unlock 
Sleep's  bondsmen,  speeding  upon  their  way 
The  wills  and  wishes  of  waken'd  man. 
How  shall  we  hail  him  ?  what  is  his  name  ? 
His  names  are  many,  for  wide  his  fame ; 
Blue-helm'd  Bellona's  champion, 
The  Bird  of  Mars,  Alectryon, 
The  Bird  of  Fire,  the  Bird  of  Lok; 
Sacred  sire  of  a  sacred  clan; 
FaithfuUest  chief  of  the  feathery  flock 
Since  temples  arose  in  Asia, 
Or  priests  and  augurs  their  rites  began, 
Roman,  Grecian,  Arabian, 
And  Runic, — they  whose  spells  could  sway 
Sea- hurricanes  Scandinavian. 

VII. 

Wise  and  wary  as  one  should  be 

That  is  vigilant  lord  of  the  virtues  seven, 

First  of  all  upon  earth  is  he 

To  watch,  and  be  ware  of,  change  in  heaven. 

For  in  heaven  a  bride  he  hath ;  and  she 

Is  starry,  tender,  and  fair  to  see ; 

Whose  mystical  name  is  Alcyon.* 

To  her  he  merrily  three  times  three 

Soundeth  his  strepitant  clarion. 

Since  nothing  hath  he  to  hide ;  but,  free 

And  open,  he  beareth  wherever  he  wend 

A  fearless  front  and  a  spirit  bold 

In  all  his  wooings  and  all  his  wars. 

*  The  constellation  of  the  Pleiades  was  called  by  the  A  rabian 
astronomers  "The  Hen  and  Chickens." 


THE  LA  Y  OF  THE  COCK,  157 

Which  well  they  knew,  those  Flamens  old 
AVho  in  honour  did  hold  for  his  corselet  of  gold, 
His  stately  stride,  and  his  crest  on  end, 
The  armed  comrade  of  mighty  Mars, 
And  fair  Minerva's  familiar  friend. 


When  he  walketh  under  the  vaulted  arch 
"N^herethro'  a  mounted  knight  might  march 
At  easy  speed  his  pacing  steed 
Nor  bruise  one  plume  of  his  helmet  crest. 
This  bird,  whose  magnanimous  graciousnesses 
The  least  of  his  kingly  gestes  expresses, 
Hath  so  lofty  a  heart  in  so  lordly  a  breast 
That,  with  condescensive  and  sidelong  tread. 
Lightly  he  boweth  his  stately  head. 
For  courtesy's  sake,  as  becometh  a  king 
With  his  vassals  around  him  progressing. 


IX. 

Then  up  on  a  great  sunbeam  he  springeth. 

His  clashing  vans  doth  thrice  unlock 

With  a  shudder  of  joy,  and  make  sweet  shock 

Of  all  his  silken  sheeny  feathers; 

And  wingeth,  but  not  far  he  wingeth, 

His  weighty  flight,  erect  and  tall 

Descending  on  the  breezy  wall. 

Where  he  with  voice  sonorous  singeth, 

After  the  fashion  of  his  forefathers 

To  rally  his  clan  from  far  away. 

His  ancient  famous  roundelay. 

But  first,  as  when  in  martial  Rome, 


158  THE  LAY  OF  THE  COCK. 

Before  the  Conscript  Fathers  all, 
Uprising  with  importance,  some 
Famed  leader  senatorial 
Assumed  imposing  attitude, 
With  gather'd  rol)e  and  right  arm  bare, 
So  he,  in  oratoric  mood, 
With  finger'd  foot  upcurl'd  in  air. 
Fit  posture  doth  select;  then  high 
And  shrill  is  heard  the  rallying  cry 
Whereto,  his  kinsmen,  answering  him 
From  distant  regions,  make  reply; 
While  he,  with  inward  ecstasy, 
Doth  either  dim  blue  eyelid  film 
Let  fall  o'er  each  delighted  eye. 


Anon,  the  noon  is  high  up-wheel'd. 
And  reapers  droop  in  oaten  field. 
But  he  for  whom  my  harp  I  string 
(So  might  I  half  his  glory  share !) 
In  easy  state,  an  orient  king, 
Gracious,  grave,  and  debonair, 
Thro'  his  throng'd  seraglio  moveth 
'Mid  his  strutting  queens;  and,  stately, 
One  he  seeketh,  one  reproveth, 
Ruling  all  sedately. 
Well-skill'd  in  government  is  he, 
High-couraged,  honourable. 
And  gentle-manner'd,  as  should  be 
Good  kings  whose  thrones  are  stable: 
Wise,  loving,  watchful  as  a  star, 
By  lofty  thoughts  uplifted; 
And,  birds  or  men,  full  few  there  are 
So  affluently  gifted. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  COCK.  159 


Chanted  and  told  to  a  harp  of  gold, 

Upon  seven  strings,  should  his  virtues  be ; 

That  be  sevenfold  as,  in  time  of  old, 

Were  the  Seven  Spirits  of  Chivalrie: 

Noble  Valour,  that  feareth  n(jne : 

Prudence,  that  keepeth  what  Valour  hath  won : 

Vigilance  wary,  and  Courtesy  kind  : 

Love,  that  gives  life  to  all  virtues  combined : 

Justice,  that  fails  not,  whatever  befall : 

And  Temperance,  setting  the  measure  to  all. 

Chanted  and  told  to  a  harp  of  pure  gold, 

Upon  strings  that  are  seven,  with  song  sevenfold, 

Worthy  to  be  are  his  virtues.     And  we. 

If  we  were  as  bold,  as  loving,  as  free. 

High-hearted,  strong-soul'd,  and  wise,  as  he, 

As  sober,  vigorous,  vigilant,  just, 

And  joyous,  and  scornful  of  mean  mistrust, 

Then  the  world  would  be  what  the  world  to  me 

Doth  seem  when  I  hear,  in  the  sunshine  clear, 

This  minstrel  making  magnanimous  cheer, 

And  hailing  the  light  with  a  heart  of  glee. 

For  his  brave  song  teacheth  timely  content : 

And,  far  as  it  reacheth,  my  soul  is  sent. 

Honouring  God's  good  government. 

And  greeting  the  general  joy  of  the  world : 

W^hile  music  without,  and  mirth  within, 

Mingle  my  heart  with  the  merry  din 

Of  a  loud  and  high  defiance  hurl'd 

At  darkness,  and  sorrow,  and  sin. 


i6o  LITTLE  ELLA. 

LITTLE   ELLA. 
I. 

I  KNOW  now,  little  Ella,  what  the  flowers 

Said  to  you  then,  to  make  your  cheek  so  pale ; 

And  why  the  blackbird  in  our  laurel  bowers 
Spake  to  you  only,  and  the  timorous  snail 

Fear'd  less  your  steps  than  those  of  the  May  shower. 
It  is  not  strange  these  creatures  loved  you  so. 
And  told  you  all.     'Twas  not  so  long  ago 

You  were  yourself  a  bird,  or  else  a  flower. 


And,  little  Ella,  you  were  pale  because 

So  soon  you  were  to  die.     I  know  that  now. 
And  why  there  ever  seem'd  a  sort  of  gauze 

Over  your  deep  blue  eyes,  and  sad  young  brow. 
You  were  too  good  to  grow  up,  Ella,  you, 

And  be  a  woman,  such  as  I  have  known ! 

And  so  upon  your  heart  they  put  a  stone, 
And  left  you,  child,  among  the  flowers  and  dew. 


III. 

O  thou,  the  morning  star  of  my  sad  soul ! 

My  little  elfin  friend  from  Faery  Land  ! 
Whose  memory  is  yet  innocent  of  the  whole 

Of  that  which  makes  me  doubly  need  thy  hand. 
Thy  guiding  hand  from  mine  so  soon  withdrawn ! 

Here,  where  I  find  so  little  like  to  thee, 

For  thou  wert  as  the  breath  of  dawn  to  me, 
Starry,  and  pure,  and  brief,  as  is  the  dawn. 


LITTLE  ELLA,  i6i 


Thy  knight  was  I,  and  thou  my  Faery  Queen. 

('Twas  in  the  days  of  love  and  chivalry!) 
And  thou  did'st  hide  thee  in  a  bower  of  green. 

But  thou  so  well  hast  hidden  thee,  that  I 
Have  never  found  thee  since.     And  thou  did'st  set 

Many  a  task,  and  quest,  and  high  emprize, 

Ere  I  should  win  from  thine  approving  eyes 
My  guerdon, — ah !  so  many,  that  not  yet 


My  tasks  are  ended,  nor  my  wanderings  o'er. 

But  some  day  there  will  come  across  the  main 
A  magic  barque,  and  I  shall  quit  this  shore 

Of  care,  and  find  thee  in  thy  bovver  again ; 
And  thou  wilt  say,  "My  brother,  hast  thou  found 

Our  home  at  last  ? "  .  .  .  "Whilst  I,  in  answer, 
sweet, 

Shall  heap  my  life's  last  booty  at  thy  feet. 
And  bare  my  breast  with  many  a  bleeding  wound. 


The  spoils  of  time !  the  trophies  of  a  world ! 

The  keys  of  conquer'd  towns,  and  captived  kings, 
And  many  a  broken  sword,  and  banner  furl'd. 

The  heads  of  giants,  and  swart  soldan's  rings, 
And  many  a  maiden's  scarf,  and  many  a  wand 

Of  baffled  wizard,  many  an  amulet, 

And  many  a  shield  with  mine  own  heart's  blood 
wet. 
And  jewels  rare  from  many  a  distant  land ! 

717 


i62  LITTLE  ELLA. 


VII. 


How  sweet  with  thee,  my  sister,  to  renew 
The  happy  search  for  those  ethereal  birds 

Which  back  to  their  own  chmes  thou  did'st  pursue, — 
Ah,  heedless!  thou,  in  all  whose  deeds  and  words 

Unkindness  never  was  till  then,  nor  lack 
Of  care  for  others'  pain !     Could'st  thou  but  see 
How  woeful  weary  is  my  want  of  thee, 

Methinks  that  even  now  thou  would'st  come  back  ; 


Leaving  thy  heavenly  playmates,  for  my  sake, 
To  let  me  lean  my  head  upon  thy  breast. 

And  weep  away  those  worst  of  griefs  that  ache 
And  scorch,  but  cannot  turn  to  tears.     Or,  best, 

The  way  that  leads  where  thou  art  gone,  contrive, 
O  child,  to  whisper  to  me!     Ope  the  gate, 
And  help  me  thro'.     Else,  I  shall  die  too  late 

Even  for  thy  consoling  to  revive. 


She  pass'd  out  of  my  youth  at  the  still  lime 

O'  the  early  light,  when  all  was  green  and  husht. 

She  pass'd,  and  pass'd  away.     Like  broken  rhyme 
Her  sweet  short  life's  few  relics  are.     This  crusht 

And  scatter'd  rose,    she  dropp'd:    that   page,   she 
turn'd, 
And  finish'd  not :  this  curl,  her  gift :  this  knot 
That  flutter'd  from  her  .  .  .   Hard  world,  harm 
them  not ! 

My  right  to  keep  them  hath  been  sorely  earn'd. 


DROPPINGS,  163 

DROPPINGS. 


The  leaves  that  fall  on  the  grassy  wall, 

And  the  rain  dropping  out  of  the  apple  tree ! 

And  is  it  only  a  passing  dream  ? 

For  I  know  not  why,  but  these  things  seem 
Just  now  worth  more  than  the  world  to  me. 


Fast  the  leaves  fall  on  the  grassy  wall ; 

Fast  drops  the  rain  from  the  apple  tree; 
And  if  I  could  feel  what  I  feel  now 
But  a  moment  longer,  I  think  I  should  know 

More  than  ever  was  known,  or  known  will  be. 


III. 

Wherefore?     Leaves  fall  all  day  on  the  wall, 

All  day  drops  rain  from  the  apple  tree. 
But  never  before  did  the  leaves  and  the  rain, 
And  they  doubtless  will  never,  never  again, 
Seem  about  to  impart  such  a  secret  to  me. 


IV. 

Mere  leaves  that  fall  on  yonder  wall ! 

Mere  rain  dropping  down  out  of  yonder  tree ! 
What  matter  ?     If  Nature  has  something  to  say, 
Let  her  take  her  own  time,  let  her  choose  her  own 
way, 

So  long  as  at  last  she  will  say  it  to  me. 


1 64  KNO  W  THYSELF. 

V. 

Ah!  but  leaves  will  fall,  as  now,  on  the  wall 

And  rain,  as  now,  drop  from  out  of  the  tree, 
Many,  many  a  day,  while  the  chance,  I  know, 
Is  lost !  I  have  miss'd  what,  a  moment  ago, 
The  leaves  and  the  rain  had  confided  to  me. 


TNfiei  2EATT0N. 

Well  and  good  is  this  doctrine  of  *'  Know  thyself," 

And  let  him  obey  it,  that  can,  to  the  letter; 

Self-ignorance  being  the  veriest  fetter 

That  ever  kept  fools  in  the  stocks,  no  doubt. 

But,  while  the  Greek  sages  lie  there  on  my  shelf. 

Why  should  I  scruple  to  speak  my  mind  out, 

And  assert  that  "  Forget  thyself"  is  a  better? 

Self-nnconsciousness  being,  perchance, 

The  one  thing  free  from  self-ignorance. 

Not  by  looking  within,  but  by  living  without. 

This  centre  of  self,  shall  a  man  grow  wise. 

Let  us,  leaving  ourselves,  then,  go  boldly  about. 

And  take  part  in  the  business  of  earth  and  skies : 

For  only  by  knowledge  of  that  which  is  not 

Thyself,  shall  thyself  be  learn'd,  I  wot. 

Woe  to  the  nation,  and  woe  to  the  age,  and  woe,  woe 

to  the  man 
That  live  not  outside  of  themselves  !      To  them  dis- 
solution is  near. 
Healthful  and  happy  are  they  that,  promoting  the 

infinite  plan. 
Are  moved  with  the  movement  of  things,  and  have  joy 
in  the  general  cheer. 


SIDE  BY  SIDE,  165 

KNOWLEDGE  AND  WISDOM. 

Measure  thy  knowledge  by  the  weight  of  it, 
Which  is  a  kind  of  sorrowfulness.     Men 
Dig  deep,  get  gold,  and  judge  its  value  then, 

According  as  the  heaviness  be  great  of  it. 

But  love  thy  wisdom  for  the  lightness  of  it. 
Glad  wisdom  is  not  gotten,  but  is  given: 
Not   dug   out   of  the   earth,   but   dropp'd   from 
Heaven: 

Heavenly,  not  earthly,  is  the  brightness  of  it. 


SIDE  BY  SIDE. 

I. 

(friend  and  friend.) 

May  we,  then,  never  know  each  other  ? 

Who  love  each  other  more,  I  dare 
Affirm  for  both,  than  brother  brother, 

Ay  I  more,  my  friend,  than  they  that  are 
The  children  of  one  mother. 

A  look — and  lo,  our  natures  meet ! 

A  word — our  minds  make  one  reply ! 
A  touch — our  hearts  have  but  one  beat  I 

And,  if  we  walk  together — why 

The  same  thought  guides  our  feet 


i66  SIDE  BY  SIDE, 

The  self-same  course !     The  flower  that  blows 
A  scent  unguess'd  in  hedgerow  green, 

Slim  spiders,  where  the  water  throws, 
The  starry-weeded  stones  between, 
Strange  light  that  flits  and  flows. 

Were  charged  by  some  sweet  spirit,  sure, 
(Love's  minister,  and  ours !)  to  strike 

Our  sense  with  one  same  joy,  allure 
Our  hearts,  and  bless  us  both  alike 
With  memories  that  endure. 


True  friend  I  I  know  you  :  and  I  know 
You  know  me  too.     And  this  is  well. 

Yet  something  seems  to  lie  below 
All  knowledge,  which  is  hard  to  tell. 
The  world,  where  hands  let  go, 

Slips  in  between.     The  warmth  yet  stays 
Where,  twelve  safe  hours  ago,  no  more 

Your  soul  touch'd  mine.     But  days  and  days 

Make  callous  what  one  day  leaves  sore, 

Ichoring  the  wound  they  graze. 

Not  ours  the  change,  if  change  must  fall, 
Nor  yours  the  fault,  nor  mine,  my  friend ! 

Life's  love  will  last :  but  not  love's  small 
Sweet  hourly  lives.     That  these  should  end 
It  grieves  me.     That  is  all. 

This  is  time's  curse.     Since  life  began 
It  hath  been  losing  love  too  fast. 


SIDE  BY  SIDE.  167 

And  I  would  keep,  while  yet  I  can, 
Man's  faith  in  love,  lest  at  the  last 
I  lose  love's  faith  in  man. 

But  something  sighs,  "  Be  satisfied. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  ye  can  know." 
And  walking,  talking,  side  by  side, 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me  as  though 
Love  did  to  love  provide 

(How  shall  I  say?)  a  man,  in  fine, 

A  ghostly  Third, — who  is,  indeed, 
Not  you  nor  I,  though  yours  and  mine ; 

The  creature  of  our  mutual  need. 
The  friend  for  whom  we  pine. 

You  call  him  Me :  I  call  him  You : 

Who  is  not  either  you  nqr  I : 
This  phantom  friend,  whom  we  pursue, 

Released  by  Love's  fine  alchemy, 
Mere  product  of  us  two ! 

The  man  that  each  in  each  hath  sought, 
And  each  within  himself  hath  found : 

The  being  of  our  separate  thought. 
To  each  by  his  own  nature  bound. 
From  his  own  nature  wrought. 

Heed  well  our  friend,  while  yet  we  may ! 

There  are  so  many  winds  about, 
And  any  wind  may  blow  away 

Love's  airy  child.     O  never  doubt 
He  is  the  common  prey 


t 


i68  SIDE  BY  SIDE, 

Of  every  chance,  while  love  remains : 
And  every  chance,  which  he  survives 

Is  something  added  to  love's  gains. 
Comfort  our  friend  whilst  yet  he  lives! 
Dead,  what  shall  pay  our  pains  ? 

If  cold  should  kill  his  heart  at  last, 
Regret  will  idly  muse,  and  think 

In  at  what  window  blew  the  blast  ? 

Or  how  we  might  have  stopp'd  that  chink. 
"What  mends  a  moment  past  ? 


ir. 
(man  and  wife.) 

>say,  Sweet!  no  thought,  not  any  thought. 
At  least  not  any  thought  of  you, 

But  what  must  thank  dear  love.     Nor  aught 
Of  love's  mistrust  between  us  two 

Can  ever  creep.     Thank  God,  we  keep 
Too  close  to  let  thin  doubts  slip  through, 

And  leave  a  scar  where  they  divide 

Hearts  meant  by  Heaven  to  hold  together. 

So,  soul  by  soul,  as  side  by  side, 

We  sit.     Thought  wanders  hither,  thither, 

From  star  to  star,  yet  not  so  far 
But  what,  at  end  of  all  its  tether, 


It  feels  the  beating  of  your  heart. 

To  which  mine  bound  it  long  ago. 
Our  love  is  perfect,  every  part. 


SIDE  BY  SIDE,  169 

Love's  utmost  reach'd  at  last,  must  so 
Henceforth  abide.     And,  if  I  sigh'd 
Just  now,  I  scarcely  wish  to  know 


The  reason  why.     Who  feels  love's  best, 
Must  feel  love's  best  can  be  no  more. 

We  see  the  bound,  no  longer  guess'd, 
But  fix'd  for  ever.     Lo,  the  shore ! 

On  either  hand,  'twixt  sea  and  land, 
How  clear  and  fine  does  sight  explore 


That  long-drawn  self-determined  line 
Of  difference  traced  I     My  Own,  forgive 

That,  sitting  thus,  your  hand  in  mine, 
Glad  that  dear  God  doth  let  us  live 

So  close,  my  Own,  so  almost  one, 

A  thought  that  wrongs  repose  should  strive 


With  pure  content.     So  much  we  are, 
Who  are  no  more  ....  could  I  explain ! 

Ah,  the  calm  sea-coast!     Think,  how  far 
Across  the  world  came  land  and  niain, 

Endeavouring  each  to  find  and  reach 
The  other, — well,  and  they  attain 


Here !  And  just  here,  where  they  unite, 
The  point  of  contact  seems  to  be 

The  point  of  severance.  Left  and  right, 
Here  lies  the  land  and  there  the  sea. 

They  meet  from  far:  they  touch:  yet  are 
Still  one  and  one  eternally, 


I70  SIDE  BY  SIDE. 

With  still  that  touch  between — that  touch 
That  joins  and  yet  divides — the  shore. 

Oh  soul  to  soul,  dear  love,  'tis  much ! 
Love's  utmost  gain'd  can  give  no  more. 

And  yet .  .  .  Well,  no !  'tis  better  so. 

Earth  still  (be  glad !)  holds  Heaven  in  store. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  171 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 

O  LIVES  beloved,  wherein  mine  once  did  live, 
Thinking  your  thoughts,  and  walking  in  your  ways 
On  your  dear  presence  pasturing  all  my  days, 

In  pleasantness,  and  peace ;  whose  moods  did  give 

The  measure  to  mine  own  !  how  vainly  strive 
Poor  Fancy's  fingers,  numb'd  by  time,  to  raise 
This  veil  of  woven  years,  that  from  my  gaze 

To  hide  what  now  you  are  doth  still  contrive  ! 

Dear  lives,  I  marvel  if  to  you  yet  clings 

Of  mine  some  colour;  and  my  heart  then  feels 

Much  like  the  ghost  of  one  who  died  too  young 
To  be  remember'd  well,  that  sometimes  steals 

A  family  of  unsad  friends  among 

Sighing,  and  hears  them  talk  of  other  things. 


173  SACRIFICE. 


SACRIFICE. 

Unto  my  soul  I  said — "  Make  now  complete 

Thy  sacrifice  by  silence.     Undeterr'd, 

Strike  down  this  beggar  heart,  that  would  be  heard, 

And  stops  men's  pity  in  the  public  street; 

A  mendicant  for  miserable  meat ! 

Nor  pay  thy  vassal,  Pain,  with  any  word. 

Lest  so  the  deed  thou  doest  should  be  slurr'd 

By  shameful  recompense,  and  all  unsweet. 

Uncover  not  the  faces  of  thy  dead. 

Slay  thy  condemned  self,  and  hide  the  knife. 

And  even  as  death,  compassionating  life, 

With  gracious  verdure  doth  the  graves  o'erspread, 

So  hide  beneath  a  smiling  face  the  whole 

Of  thine  unutter'd  misery,  O  my  soul  I " 


DUTY.  173 


DUTY. 

How  like  a  trumpet  from  the  sentinel 

Angel,  that  standeth  in  the  morning  star, 

Empanoplied  and  plumed,  as  angels  are 

Whom  God  doth  charge  to  watch  that  all  be  well, 

Cometh  to  me  thy  call,  O  terrible, 

That,  girt,  and  crown'd,  and  sworded  for  Heaven's 

war, 
Standest  supreme  above  the  confused  jar 
Of  shock'd  antagonisms,  and  the  yell 
Of  trampled  pain  !     Thou  of  the  solemn  eyes, 
Firm-fronted  Duty,  on  whose  high  command 
My  heart  waits  awed,  stretch  forth  thy  harness'd 

hand, 
And  with  a  louder  summons  bid  arise 
My  soul  to  battle.     Hark,  the  muster-roll ! 
Thy  name  is  call'd.    Forth,  thou  poor  conscript  soul  I 


174  INTRODUCTORY. 


From  ''FABLES  IN  SONG." 


INTRODUCTORY. 
I. 

A  LITTLE  bird  fares  well  in  Spring. 

For  all  she  wants  she  finds  enough, 
And  every  casual  common  thing 

She  makes  her  own  without  rebuff. 


First,  wool  and  hair  from  sheep  and  cow: 
Then  twig  and  straw,  to  bind  them  fast, 

From  thicket  and  from  thatch :  and  now 
A  little  nest  is  built  at  last. 


From  out  that  little  nest  shall  rise, 
When  woods  are  warm,  a  living  song, 

A  music  mixt  with  light,  that  flies 
Thro'  fluttering  shade  the  leaves  among. 


INTRODUCTORY.  175 


IV. 


Its  home?  straw,  twi^,  and  wool,  and  hair. 

Mere  nothings,  these,  to  house  or  herd. 
Who  made  them  something,  made  them  fair, 

Making  them  all  her  own  ?     The  bird. 


O  little  bird,  take  everything. 

And  build  thy  nest  without  rebuff, 

And,  when  thy  nest  is  builded,  sing ! 
For  who  can  praise  thy  song  enough? 


And  some  believe  (believe  they  wrong  ?) 
If  like  the  bird  the  bard  could  sing, 

That,  like  the  bird,  fit  home  foj  Song 
The  bard  would  find  in  everything. 

VII. 

By  casual  grace  of  common  chance 

From  house  and  herd,  from  thick  and  thatch, 
Assign'd  for  Song's  inheritance 

Had  Song  the  gift  that  grace  to  catch. 


Such  things  I  found,  by  passers-by 
As  rubbish  from  the  roadside  thrust; 

Which  poets,  seeking  poesy, 

Disdain'd  to  rescue  from  the  dust. 


176  THE  THISTLE, 

IX. 

Yet  here  they  are — not  rubbish  now 
I  fain  would  hope.     Do  critics  stare, 

Reserve  applause,  and  rub  the  brow? 
O  that  a  little  bird  I  were  ! 


THE   THISTLE.     MoTtO. 

(a  flower's  ballad.) 

It  was  a  thorn, 
And  it  stood  forlorn 
In  the  burning  sunrise  land : 

A  blighted  thorn, 
And  at  eve  and  morn 
Thus  it  sigh'd  to  the  desert  sand. 

**  Every  flower. 
By  its  beauty's  power, 
With  a  crown  of  glory  is  crown'd. 

No  crown  have  I, 
For  a  crown  I  sigh, 
For  a  crown  that  I  have  not  found. 

A  crown  !  a  crown ! 
A  crown  of  mine  own, 
To  wind  in  a  maiden's  hair!" 


THE  THISTLE,  177 

Sad  thorn,  why  grieve  ? 
Thou  a  crown  shalt  weave, 
But  not  for  a  maiden  to  wear. 


That  crown  shall  shine 
When  all  crowns  save  thine, 
With  the  glory  they  gave,  are  gone : 

For,  thorn,  my  thorn, 
Thy  crown  shall  be  worn 
By  the  King  of  Sorrov/s  alone. 


PRELUDE. 

The  green  grass-blades  aquiver 

With  joy  at  the  dawn  of  day 
(For  the  most  inquisitive  ever 

Of  the  flowers  of  the  field  are  they) 
Lisp'd  it  low  to  their  lazy 

Neighbours  that  flat  on  the  ground, 
Dandelion  and  daisy, 

Lay  still  in  a  slumber  sound: 
But  soon,  as  a  ripple  of  shadow 

Runs  over  the  whisperous  wheat. 
The  rumour  ran  over  the  meadow 

With  its  numberless  fluttering  feet : 
It  was  told  by  the  water-cresses 

To  the  brooklet  that,  in  and  out 
Of  his  garrulous  green  recesses, 

For  gossip  was  gadding  about : 
And  the  brooklet,  full  of  the  matter, 

Spread  it  abroad  with  pride; 

718 


178  THE  THISTLE. 

But  he  stopp'd  to  gossip  and  chatter, 

And  turn'd  so  often  aside, 
That  his  news  got  there  before  him 

Ere  his  journey  down  was  done; 
And  young  leaves  in  the  vale  laugh'd  o'er  him, 

**  We  know  it !     The  snow  is  gone  I  " 


The  snow  is  gone !  but  ye  only 
Know  how  good  doth  that  good  news  sound, 

Whose  hearts,  long  buried  and  lonely, 
Have  been  waiting,  winter-bound, 

For  the  voice  of  the  wakening  angel 

To  utter  the  welcome  evangel, 
"  The  snow  is  gone :  re-arise. 

And  blossom  as  heretofore, 
Hopes,  imaginings,  memories, 

And  joys  of  the  days  of  yore  I " 


'Tis  the  white  anemone,  fashion'd  so 
Like  to  the  stars  of  the  winter  snow. 
First  thinks,  *'  If  I  come  too  soon,  no  doubt 

I  shall  seem  but  the  snow  that  hath  staid  too 
long, 
So  'tis  I  that  will  be  Spring's  unguess'd  scout." 

And  wide  she  wanders  the  woods  among. 
The  borage,  blue-eyed,  with  a  thrill  of  pride, 
(For  warm  is  her  welcome  on  every  side) 
From  Elfland  coming  to  claim  her  place. 

Garments  gay  of  green  velvet  takes 
Creased  from  the  delicate  travelling  case 

A  warm  breeze  breaks.     The  daisy  awakes 
And  opens  her  wondering  eyes,  yet  red 


THE  THISTLE,  179 

About  the  rims  with  a  too  long  sleep ; 
Whilst,  bold  from  his  ambush,  with  helm  on  head 

And  lance  in  rest,  doth  the  bulrush  leap. 
Primrose  and  violet  nestle  themselves. 
Under  the  trees,  by  tens  and  twelves. 
But  the  venturous  cowslips,  one  by  one, 

Trembling,  chilly,  atiptoe  stand 
On  little  hillocks  and  knoils  alone; 

Watchful  pickets,  that  wave  a  hand 
For  signal  sure  that  the  snow  is  gone, 

Then  around  them  call  their  comrades  all 

In  many  a  blithe  and  festal  band ; 
Till  the  field  is  alive  with  grass  and  flowers, 

And  wherever  the  flashing  footsteps  fall. 
Of  the  fleet,  ethereal  April  showers, 
The  untoucht  earth  laughs,  overlaid 
With  multitudinous  blossom  and  blade. 


PART  I. 

'Twas  long  after  the  grass  and  the  flowers,  one 

day, 
That  there  came  straggling  along  the  way 

A  little  traveller,  somewhat  late. 

Tired  he  was;  and  down  he  sat 
In  the  ditch  by  the  road,  where  he  tried  to  nestle 

Out  of  the  dust  and  the  noontide  heat. 
Poor  little  vagabond  wayside  Thistle! 

In  the  ditch  was  his  only  safe  retreat. 
Flung  out  of  the  field  as  soon  as  found  there, 

And  banisht  the  garden,  where  should  he  stay? 
Wherever  he  roam'd,  still  Fortune  frown'd  there, 

And,  wherever  he  settled,  spurn'd  him  away. 


i8o  THE  THISTLE, 

From  place  to  place,  had  he  wander' d  long 

The  weary  high  road,  parcht  with  thirst. 
Now  here,  in  the  ditch,  for  awhile  among 

The  brambles  hidden,  he  crouch'd ;  and  first 
Wistfully  eyed,  on  the  other  side, 

A  fresh  green  meadow  with  flow'rets  pied; 
And  then,  with  a  pang,  as  he  peep'd  and  pried, 

"  Oh,  to  rest  there  !  "  he  thought,  and  sigh'd. 
•'  Oh,  to  rest  there,  it  is  all  so  fair! 

Yonder  wanders  a  brooklet,  sure? 

No !  it  is  only  the  mill-sluice  small. 
But  he  looks  like  a  brook,  so  bright  and  pure, 

And  his  banks  are  broider'd  with  violets  all. 
Soft ! — I  have  half  a  mind  to  try — 

Could  one  slip  in  yonder  quietly, 
Where  the  rippled  damp  of  the  deep  grass  spares 

Cool  rest  to  each  roving  butterfly, 
How  pleasant  'twould  be !     There  is  nobody  by, 

And  perhaps  there  is  nobody  owns  or  cares 
To  look  after  yon  meadow.  It  seems  so  still, 
Silent,  and  safe — shall  I  venture  ? — I  will ! 

From  the  ditch  it  is  but  a  step  or  two. 
And,  maybe,  the  owner  is  dead,  and  the  heirs 

Away  in  the  town,  and  will  never  know." 


Then  the  little  Thistle  atiptoe  stood, 

All  in  a  tremble,  sharp  yet  shy. 
The  vagabond's  conscience  was  not  good. 

He  had  been  so  often  a  trespasser  sly, 
He  had  been  so  often  caught  by  the  law. 

He  had  been  so  often  beaten  before; 
He  was  still  so  small :  if  a  spade  he  saw, 

He  mutter'd  a  Paternoster  o'er, 


THE  THISTLE,  i8i 

And  cower'd.     So,  cautiously  thrusting  out 
Here  a  timorous  leaf,  there  a  tiny  sprout, 
And  then  dropping  a  seed,  and  so  waiting  anon 
For  a  chance  lift  got  from  the  wind — still  on, 
With  a  hope  that  the  sun  and  the  breeze  might 

please 
To  be  helpful  and  kind — by  degrees  he  frees 
And  feels  his  way  with  a  fluttering  heart. 

In  the  ditch  there  were  heaps  of  stones  to  pass. 
They  scratch'd  him,  and  tore  him,  and  made  him 
smart, 

And  ruin'd  his  leaves.     But  those  leaves,  alas. 
Already  so  tatter'd  and  shatter'd  were. 

That  to  keep  them  longer  was  worth  no  care; 
And  at  last  he  was  safe  in  the  meadow ;  and  there 

*«Ah,  ha!"   sigh'd   the   Thistle;    "so  far,   so 
well ! 
If  I  can  but  stay  where  I  am,  I  shall  fare 

Blithe  as  the  bee  in  the  blossom's  bell. 
O  blest  abode !     To  have  done  with  the  road, 
And  got  rid  of  the  ditch !     Ah,  who  can  tell 

The  rapture  of  rest  to  the  wanderer's  breast?" 

Down  out  of  heaven  a  dewdrop  fell 
On  the  head  of  the  Thistle :  and  he  fell  asleep 
In  the  lap  of  the  twilight  soft  and  deep. 

PART    III, 

At  sunrise  he  woke :  and  he  still  was  there, 

In  the  bright  grass,  breathing  the  balmy  air. 
He  stretch'd  his  limbs,  and  he  shook  off  the  dust, 

And  he  wash'd  himself  in  the  morning  dew; 
And,  opening  his  pedlar's  pack,  out-thrust 

A  spruce  little  pair  of  leaflets  new; 
And  made  for  himself  a  fine  white  ruff, 


i82  THE  THISTLE, 

About  his  neck  to  wear ; 
And  pruned  and  polish'd  his  prickles  tough ; 

And  put  on  a  holiday  air. 
And  **  If  only  nobody  finds  me  out !  " 

He  laugh'd,  as  he  loll'd  among 
The  grass,  delighted,  and  look'd  about, 

And  humm'd  a  homely  song, 

In  his  wanderings  heard  elsewhere — 

**  A  crown!  a  croiunt 
A  crown  of  mine  own, 
To  wind  in  a  maiden's  hair  I " 

But  ...  a  sweep  of  the  scythe,  and  a  stamp  of  the 
foot, 
And  "Vile  weed!  is  there  no  getting  rid  of  thee 
ever?" 
And  what  little  was  spared  by  the  scythe,  the  boot, 
With  its  hobnails,  hasten'd  to  crush  and  shiver. 


'Twas  the  Farmer,  who  just  then  happen'd  to  pass. 
He  had  gone  to  the  field  to  cut  some  grass 
For  his  beast  that  morn ;  and  no  sooner  saw 

The  trespasser  there  i^ijlagranie  delicto, 
Than,  scythe  in  hand,  he  enforced  the  law 

On  the  luckless  offender,  vi  et  ictu. 


All  mangled  and  bruised,  the  poor  little  Thistle 
With  his  desperate  roots  to  the  soil  clung  fast. 

The  Farmer  away,  with  a  careless  whistle, 
Homeward  over  the  meadow  pass'd. 


The  thistle.  igj 

The  Thistle  breathed  freer,  and  shook  his  gasht  head. 

"All's  well,  if  it  be  no  worse !  "  he  said. 
**  My  crown  is  gone,  but  'twill  grow  again. 

There  is  many  another  {I feel  it)  in  me. 
And  one  must  not  make  too  much  of  the  pain. 

Only,  you  good  saints,  let  me  not  be 
Forced,  for  my  sins,  to  return  to  the  road !  " 
Then  his  roots  he  burrow'd  more  deep  and  broad. 


But  every  day  '  twas  the  self-same  thing ! 

Tho'  he  made  himself  little,  and  hid  his  head, 
Trying,  with  all  his  might,  to  cling 

Close  to  the  soil,  and  appear  to  be  dead. 
For  his  spacious  leaves,  that  were  carved  and  curl'd. 

For  Corinthian  columns  in  temples  fair. 
He  could  not  check  them  when  these  unfurl'd 

Their  flourishing  architecture  there, 
And,  all  about  him  their  beauty  spreading, 

Layer  upon  layer  uprose  from  below ; 
And  the  hardy  young  head,  in  despite  of  beheading, 

Sprang  up  again— for  the  scythe  to  mow ! 
Round  and  about  him,  each  blossom  was  blowing. 
No  chance  of  blowing  had  he  found  ever : 
Who  no    sooner    was  seen    than    the    sharp  steel 

mowing. 
Or    the    harsh    foot    crushing    him,    stopp'd     the 

endeavour. 
And,    "Oh,  blessed,"  he   sigh'd,    "is  the  blossom 
that  blows  1 
Colours  I  know  of,  no  eyes  yet  see. 
But  I  dare  not  show  them ;  and  nobody  knows, 
Nobody  guesses,  what's  hidden  in  me ! 
In  all  the  world  but  one  creature,  alas. 
For  love's  sake  seeks  me;  and  he  is  an  ass." 


i84  THE  THISTLE. 


So  went  the  Spring :  and  so  came  and  went 
The  Summer.     The  aftermath  was  mown. 
In  bristly  patches,  no  longer  blent 
With  the  glow  of  the  blossoms  that  there  had 
blown, 
The  lean  gaunt  herbage  scantly  grew, 
And  the  beast  of  the  field  had  the  residue 
The  primrose  was  gone,  and  the  violet, 
And  under  the  desolate  woods,  the  white 
Anemone's  constellations,  set. 
Had  left  the  earth  dark  as  a  starless  night, 
But,  outliving  his  betters  one  by  one, 
In  the  flowerless  field,  with  no  thought  of  flight, 
The  brave  little  Thistle  remain'd — alone ! 
And,  since  skies  were  cold,  and  suns  were  dim, 
No  one  noticed,  and  no  one  praised, 
But  also  no  one  maltreated,  him. 
And  the  pensive  beasts  of  the  field,  that  grazed 
The   twice-cropt  grass,  where  their  wandering 
whim 
Led  them,  lazy,  from  spot  to  spot, 
Shunn'd  the  Thistle  and  harm'd  him  not. 


PART  VI. 

Then  the  Thistle,  at  last,  could  enlarge  his  store 
Of  the  few  joys  fate  had  vouchsafed  him  sparely. 
Baffled  a  hundred  times,  and  more, 

Bruised,  and  torn,  and  surviving  barely. 
Still  he  swvived:  and  for  him,  him  only. 

Green  leaves  gladden'd  the  leafless  cold 


THE  THISTLE.  185 

Where,  Summer's  orphan,  he  linger'd  lonely 

Over  her  grave  in  the  frozen  mould. 
For,  as  days,  long  dead,  by  a  bard  born  after 

Are  invoked,  and  revive  in  a  form  more  fair, 
All  the  bliss   that  was   beauty,  the  life  that  was 
laughter, 
Ere  the  frolic  fields  were  bereft  and  bare, 
The  lone  Thistle  renew'd  and  transform'd  to  his 
own; 
As  flower  by  flower — from  the  fervid  rose, 
Whose  beauty  so  well  to  herself  is  known, 

That  she  blushes  proud  of  the  truth  she  knows. 
To  the  violet.  Modesty's  vanquisht  child. 

Hiding  her  head  in  the  sylvan  places 
Where  her  wandering  wooer,  the  March  gust  wild, 
Hath  left  her  faint  from  his  harsh  embraces, 

All  of  them — all,  in  a  dream  divine 
To  the  Thistle  their  else-lost  secrets  told 

Of  blushes  that  burn,  and  of  brows  that  shine. 
With  passion  of  purple  and  glory  of  gold. 
So  all  flowers  of  the  field  were  alive  in  one : 

And  the  glow  of  his  sheen,  and  the  gloss  of  his 
down. 
Were  as  jewels  dead  queens  have  confided  alone 
To  the  craftsman  who  fashions  them  all  to  a  crown. 


For  each  hope  in  the  heart  of  the  poor  plant  hidden, 

Each  vision  of  bliss  and  of  beauty,  nurst 
With  a  passion,  by  Prejudice  check'd  and  chidden. 

For  a  life  by  the  fiat  of  Fortune  curst, 
Rushing  forthwith  into  rich  reality, 

Fill'd  the  cup  of  a  quenchless  thirst 
Till  it  flow'd  with  exuberant  prodigality. 

And  his  long-pent  life  into  blossom  burst. 


l86  POSSESSION. 

A  single  blossom :  but  statelier  far. 

And  fairer,  than  many  a  million  are. 
A  splendid  disc,  full  and  flashing  with  wonder  1 

As  the  sea-rose  swims  on  the  water,  so 
That  effulgent  star  on  the  bleak  earth  under 

Lay  spread  out  in  a  luminous  glow. 
And  "At  last  I  can  blossom!  blossom!  blossom!  " 

The   Thistle   laugh'd,  greeting   the   earth  and 
heaven, 
And  he  blossom'd  his  whole  heart  out  of  his  bosom. 

And  all  was  forgotten,  save  all  that  was  given. 


POSSESSION. 

A  POET  loved  a  Star, 

And  to  it  whisper'd  nightly, 
"Being  so  fair,  why  art  thou,  love,  so  far? 
Or  why  so  coldly  shine,  who  shinest  so  brightly  ? 

O  Beauty,  woo'd  and  unpossest, 

O  might  I  to  this  beating  breast 

But  clasp  thee  once,  and  then  die,  blest !  " 


That  Star  her  Poet's  love, 
So  wildly  warm,  made  human. 
And,  leaving  for  his  sake  her  heaven  above, 
His  Star  stoop'd  earthward,  and  became  a  woman. 
•'  Thou  who  hast  woo'd  and  hast  possest, 
My  lover,  answer,  which  was  best, 
The  Star's  beam,  or  the  Woman's  breast  ?  " 


PRE  MA  TURITY.  1 87 

' '  I  miss  from  heaven, "  the  man  replied, 
**  A  light  that  drew  my  spirit  to  it." 

And  to  the  man  the  woman  sigh'd, 
'*  I  miss  from  earth  a  poet," 


PREMATURITY. 


If  aught  in  Nature  be  unnatural, 

It  is  the  slaying  by  a  spring-tide  frost 
Of  Spring's  own  children :  cheated  blossoms  all, 
Betray'd  i'  the  birth,  and  born  for  burial 

Of  budding  promise,  scarce  beloved  ere  lost ! 
Once,  in  the  silence  of  a  clear  Spring  night, 
This  still,  cold-footed  Frost,  with  footstep  light 
Slid  thro'  the  tepid  season  like  a  ghost 
Wrapt  in  thin  white. 
Flitting,  he  smote  the  first-born  of  the  year. 
And,  ere  the  break  of  day,  their  pretty  buds  were 
sere. 


But  the  blossoms  that  perish'd 

Were  those  alone 
Which,  in  haste  to  be  cherish'd 

With  loosen'd  zone 
Had  too  soon  to  the  sun  all  their  beauty  shown. 

Lightly- vested, 

Amorous-breastedj 


i88         THE  FAR  AND  THE  NEAR. 

Blossom  of  almond,  blossom  of  peach : 
Impatient  children,  with  hearts  unsteady, 

So  young  and  yet  more  precocious  each 
Than  the  leaves  of  the  Summer,  and  blushing 
already ! 


Ill, 

These  perish'd,  because  too  soon  they  lived ; 
But  the  oak-flower,  prudent  and  proud,  survived. 
"If  the  sun  would  win  me,"  she  thought,  "he 
must 

Wait  for  me,  wooing  me  warmly  the  while; 
For  a  flower's  a  fool,  if  a  flower  v/ould  trust 

Her  whole  sweet  being  to  one  first  smile." 


THE  FAR  AND  THE  NEAR. 
(to  e.  l.) 

Fair  soul,  that  o'er  mine  own  dost  shine 

So  fair,  so  far  above. 
Dear  heart,  that  hast  so  close  to  mine 

The  home  of  thy  true  love: 

Be  thine  these  songs  of  Far  and  Near ! 

Two  worlds  their  sources  are : 
Each  makes  the  other  doubly  dear. 

The  near  one  and  the  far. 


THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS.  189 

THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS;  OR,  THE  FAR. 

TART    I. 
I. 

When  little  kings,  whose  race  was  run 

A  little  while  ago, 
Had  little  thrones  to  sit  upon, 

And  little  else  to  do. 
Within  a  little  town,  remote 

From  Europe's  larger  scenes, 
There  dwelt  a  man  of  little  note, 

Who  lived  on  little  means. 

II. 

A  man,  he  was,  of  humble  birth  and  mind, 

His  life  was  lowly,  small  was  his  estate. 
Yet  was  there  ever  a  human  life  confined 

In  bounds  so  narrow  by  ungenerous  fate. 
But  it  had  in  it  something  far  and  strange  ? 

This  man,  from  youth  to  age,  had  lived  and  grown 
In  a  great  longing  for  a  far  blue  range 

Of  hills  that  hover'd  o'er  his  native  town. 
Ne'er  had  his  footsteps  climb'd  those  mountains  blue. 

But  half  his  life,  and  all  his  thoughts,  dwelt  there, 
lie  was  a  man  beyond  himself.     They  drew 

His  being  out  of  him,  and  made  it  fair. 
For  wheresoe'er  his  gaze  around  him  roved, 

There  were  those  beautiful  blue  hills.     And  he, 
Who  lived,  not  in  himself,  but  them,  so  loved 

And  so  revered  them,  that  they  ceased  to  be 
To  him  mere  hills,  mere  human  feet  may  wend. 

Their  azure  summits,  to  his  longing  view. 
Were  features  of  a  dear,  though  distant  friend, 

In  kingly  coronal  and  mantle  blue. 


I90  THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS, 

III. 

And  "Oh,"  he  mused,  "full  sure  am  I 

Those  mountains  feel,  in  silent  joy, 

The  love  my  gaze  doth  give  them.     They 

Seek  it,  indeed,  with  signs  all  day ; 

Down  drawing  o'er  their  shoulders  fair, 

This  way  and  that,  soft  veils  of  air, 

And  colours,  never  twice  the  same, 

Woven  of  wind,  and  dew,  and  flame, 

And  strange  cloud-shadows,  and  slant  showers, 

•*  That  is  their  speech.     'Tis  unlike  ours, 
Easy  to  learn,  tho',  if  one  tries; 
One  only  has  to  use  his  eyes. 
The  colours  are  the  vowels.     These 
Are  liquid  links  whose  mobile  ease 
Such  fluent  combination  grants 
To  those  substantial  consonants, 
Precipitous  crags,  and  sudden  peaks. 
The  accents  are  the  lightning-streaks 
And  thunder-claps,  that  render,  each. 
Such  emphasis  to  mountain  speech. 
Next  follow  fog  and  mist,  which  are 
Verbs  we  may  call  irregular; 
Perplexing  when  at  first  you  view  them, 
But  persevere,  and  you'll  get  thro'  them. 
Then  comes  the  rain,  which  just  supplies 
The  necessary  quantities 
Of  notes  of  admiration.     Far 
Too  many,  folks  may  think  they  are. 
But  if  such  folks  could  understand 
The  mountains,  there  on  every  hand 
They'd  find  about  them  more,  far  more. 
Than  notes  of  admiration,  score 


THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS,  191 

On  score,  suffice  for.     Think,  what  lands 

And  peoples  every  peak  commands  ! 

Then  find  the  statesman  that  knows  how 

To  govern  one  land.     As  for  two, 

That  task's  beyond  the  best,  we  feel. 

Now,  had  we,  like  the  hills,  to  deal 

With  winds,  and  storms,  and  clouds,  and  snows, 

Nor  lose  our  dignified  repose. 

Who'd  wonder  why  the  hills  abound 

In  thoughts  so  serious,  so  profound. 

About  what  men,  when  met  together. 

Talk,  without  thinking,  of— the  weather  ? 

But  still  to  talk  it  is  men's  wont, 

Both  when  they  think  and  when  they  don't. 

Ah,  good  old  hills!    If  majesty 

Should,  some  day  hence,  be  forced  to  fly 

From  all  her  other  thrones  on  earth, 

'Tis  there,  with  you,  who  gave  her  birth. 

That  she  her  latest  home  would  find, 

AbovBy  but  still  amongy  mankind !  " 


PART    II. 


Thus  ever  the  fancies  of  the  man 
(Like  their  own  restless  rills) 
Upon  the  mighty  mountains  ran, 
Refresht  by  far-off  hills. 
Not  one  of  his  neighbours,  he  could  swear. 
Half  so  well  as  those  mountains,  knew  him, 
WTio  wrapp'd  his  soul  in  their  robe  of  blue. 
And,  if  that  were  fancy,  this  was  true  : 


192  777^  BLUE  MOUNTAINS. 

That,  whether  or  not,  those  mountains  fair 
For  the  good  of  this  man  had  a  thought  or  care. 
Much  good  they  had  contrived  to  do  him 
By  simply  being  there. 


His  only  wish  was  to  tell  them  of  it, 

And  requite  them  for  it.     But  not,  as  now, 

When  to  every  peak,  with  the  snow  above  it, 

And  the  azure  of  heaven  above  the  snow. 

It  was  only  his  wishes  that  found  their  way ; 

But  among  the  hills,  himself ^  some  day 

Before  he  died,  if  that  might  be. 

When  the  hills  could  hear  what  he  had  to  say, 

And  how  much  to  say  to  the  hills  had  he  ! 


III. 

Oh,  heavenly  power  of  human  wishes 

For  as  wings  to  birds,  and  as  fins  to  fishes. 

Are  a  man's  desires  to  the  soul  of  a  man. 

*Tis  by  these,  and  by  these  alone,  it  can 

Wander  at  will  thro'  its  native  sphere 

Where  the  beauty  that's  far  is  the  bliss  that  is  near. 

Fate  favour'd  the  wishes  of  this  poor  man. 

For  the  wave  of  the  ebbing  century  ran 

In  a  sudden  surge  of  storm  at  last 

Over  the  little  spot  of  earth, 

Where,  else,  unnoticed  he  might  have  past 

To  his  obscure  death  from  his  obscure  birth. 

And  thus  he,  whose  life  had  lain  out  of  sight, 

A  social  nothing,  the  strain  and  swell 

Of  the  time's  strong  trouble  swept  into  light, 


THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS,  193 

And  suddenly  made  perceptible. 

Then,  as  soon  as  noticed  by  those  in  power, 

The  man  was  honour'd  (O  happy  hour!) 

By  the  sight  of  his  name  in  a  Royal  Decree ; 

Which  inform'd  the  world  that  he  (poor  he ! 

Who  could  have  fancied  so  strange  a  thing?) 

Had  really  and  truly  lived  to  be 

A  cause  of  alarm  to  his  lord  the  King. 

For  it  banish'd  him  to  a  place,  he  knew 

Must  be  in  the  midst  of  those  mountains  blue. 

And  thus  his  wishes,  at  last,  came  true. 


Glad  was  our  friend,  when  himself  he  found, 

In. travelling  trim,  to  the  mountains  bound! 

The  way  was  long,  and  the  road  was  steep. 

And,  before  he  had  got  to  his  journey's  end, 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  hills  asleep. 

'*  Aha!"  thought  he,  '*  will  they  know  their  friend, 

Who  is  here  at  last  ?     Too  late  to-night 

To  see  them,  of  course !     They  are  sleeping  now. 

But  to-morrow,  to-morrow  at  earliest  light, 

I  shall  arise  ere  the  red  cock  crow, 

And  visit  mine  old  friends,  every  one." 


So,  at  dawn,  he  arose  with  the  rising  sun, 
And  forth,  as  blithe  as  a  bird,  went  he. 
At  first  he  was  puzzled  and  pain'd,  to  find 
All  round  him  a  field  which  appear'd  to  be 

719 


194  THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS, 

Just  like  the  fields  he  had  left  behind : 

A  little  meadow  of  grass,  hemm'd  round 

With  many  a  little  hillock  and  mound, 

Which  hinder'd  his  sight  from  ranging  far. 

"But  soon  are  these  small  hills  climbed,"  he  thought, 

"  And  behind  them,  doubtless,  the  blue  ones  are, 

Where,  sportively  hiding,  they  wish  to  be  caught. " 


Then  he  mounted  the  hillocks  that  rose  close  by, 
And  thence,  indeed,  he  beheld  once  more 
The  old  blue  hills.     But  they  were  not  nigh ; 
They  were  far,  far,  far  aAvay,  as  before. 


IV. 

*'  Strange  !"  he  mused,  "yet  I  travell'd  all  day, 
Ay,  and  more  than  the  half  o'  the  night,  too,  post ! 
And  all  my  life  I  have  heard  folks  say 
That  the  blue  hills  are  but  a  day,  at  most, 
From  my  native  town.     Did  they  err,  I  wonder?  " 
Then  he  asked  of  a  traveller  passing  by, 
"  Pray,  sir,  what  is  that  country  yonder  ? 
There,  where  the  hills  are  so  blue  and  high." 
And,  when  the  traveller  had  told  him  the  name 
Of  the  place  where  the  blue  hills  now  were  seen, 
Alas,  poor  man !  'twas  the  very  same 
Where,  till  then,  he  had  all  his  life  long  been  : 
The  country  about  his  native  town — 
His  birthplace — whence  he  had  just  been  banish'd. 
The  blue  hills  there  he  had  never  known, 
And    the    blue    hills    here^   which   he    loved,    had 
vanish'd. 


THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS.  195 

PART   IV. 


"  And  have  I  been  living,  then,  all  this  while 
In  a  blue  land — really  and  truly  blue  ?  " 
The  exile  sigh'd  with  a  sorrowful  smile, 
"And  never  dream'd  of  it !     Can  it  be  true? 
Never  dream'd  of  it !     All  seem'd  grey, 
Or  dusty  white,  with  a  patch  or  two 
Of  lean  green  grass,  or  raw  red  clay, 
To  enliven  the  rest.     But  blue  ?  .  .   .  blue  ?  . 
blue?"  .  .  . 


The  man  fell  into  a  reverie. 

O'er  his  cerulean  home  a  brood 

Of  ethereal  clouds  were  floating  free. 

And  they  sign'd  to  him,  and  he  understood. 


in. 

"  As  the  waves  that  are  clad  in  the  azure  of  ocean, 
So  clad  in  the  azure  of  heaven  are  we. 
As  thou  movest,  we  move,  with  an  unseen  motion 

And,  where  thou  foUowest,  there  we  flee. 
For  the  children  of  Never  and  Ever  we  are, 
And  our  home  is  Beyond,  and  our  name  is  Afar. 

"  Never  to  us  shall  thy  steps  attain, 

Nor  ever  to  thee  may  we  draw  nearer. 

But,  if  fair  in  thy  vision  our  forms  remain. 
Still  love  us,  the  farther  we  are,  the  dearer, 

And  be  thou  ours,  as  thine  we  are. 

For  what  were  the  near,  were  it  not  for  the  far  ? 


196  A   WHEAT-STALK 

"  Look  above,  and  below— to  the  heaven,  the  plain ! 
The  low  and  the  level,  they  disappear. 
The  aloof  and  the  lofty  alone  remain. 

And,  for  ever  present  tho'  never  near. 
Whilst  ours  are  the  summit,  the  sky,  and  the  star 
Still  thine  is  the  beauty  of  all  that  we  are." 

IV. 

All  this,  in  his  much-loved  mountain-tongue, 

The  man's  heart,  hearing  it,  understood. 

And  he  thought  of  the  old  old  days,  so  young ! 

But  he  spake  not :  only,  let  fall  a  flood 

Of  passionate  notes  of  admiration. 

Over  his  wan  cheek  silently  sweeping. 

As  when,  in  their  sorrow  and  desolation, 

At  the  death  of  the  summer,  the  hills  are  weeping. 


V. 

Then  the  folk  about  him,  who  knew  not  aught 
Of  that  mountain  language,  shook  the  head. 
"How  he  takelh  his  sentence  to  heart!"  each 

thought. 
And  **  Courage  1  the  time  must  mend,"  they  said. 


A  WHEAT-STALK;  OR,  THE  NEAR. 


The  cattle  tinkle  down  the  lanes, 
And  there  the  bramble-roses  blow. 

From  rocky  haunts  to  reach  the  plains 
The  rills,  with  shaken  timbrel,  go. 


A   WHEAT-STALK,  197 

Gay  dancers  light ! 
The  hills  are  bright 
With  gleaming  peaks  of  golden  snow. 

By  fragrant  gales  in  frolic  play 

The  floating  corn's  green  waves  are  fann'd, 
And  all  above,  broad  summer  day  1 
And  all  below,  bright  summer  land  ! 
And,  born  of  each, 
Far  out  of  reach, 
Those  shining  alpine  spectres  stand. 


A  world  of  beauty,  grandeur,  grace, 

Abundance,  fill'd  with  force  divine. 
No  sooner  doth  mine  eye  embrace 
Than  my  soul  hath  made  it  mine. 
How  deep,  O  soul, 

Thy  depth  must  be. 
To  hold  the  whole 
Of  a  world  in  thee  I 


But  O  eye,  and  O  soul,  is  your  thirst  yet  sated  ? 

Or  what  more  do  ye  claim  for  your  own  ? 
Must  this  world,  at  the  best,  be  so  lightly  rated, 

For  the  sake  of  a  better,  unknown? 

Ah,  farther  away  than  the  farthest  hill-top 
Do  Ifeel  mine  own  boundless  emotion! 

And  my  heart,  tho'  o'erbrimm'd  it  may  be  by  a 
drop, 
Is  contented  not  with  an  ocean. 


198  A   WHEAT-STALK. 


On  the  blossomy  lattice  ledge, 

Whence,  far  off,  I  descry 
The  long  land's  light  blue  edge, 

With,  beyond  it,  but  the  sky. 
From  a  glass  half  fill'd  with  water 

Leans  an  ear  of  wheat — a  prize 
Erewhile  my  little  daughter 

Brought  home  with  brighten'd  eyes. 
To  her  things  near  and  known, 

Seem  strange  and  far  away, 
The  hamlet  next  our  own 

As  distant  as  Cathay ! 
Nor  needs  she  earth  should  be 

So  wondrous  wide  and  far, 
Such  worlds  at  hand  hath  she. 

And  every  world  a  star ! 


Why,  dreaming  ever,  clings  my  gaze  so  fast 

To  this  small  wheat-stem?     Whence  its  power 
to  draw 

My  refluent  thoughts  from  yonder  distance  vast, 
And  hang  them  on  a  homely  wheaten  straw  ? 

It  is  that,  small  and  homely  though  it  be, 

This  car  of  wheat  so  homely  and  so  small, 
Because  it  is  so  near,  so  near  to  me, 

Hath  size  enough  and  power  to  cover  all. 
It  leans  along  full  twenty  leagues  of  land, 

And  hides  them  with  a  straw.     The  purple  hills 
Peer  through  its  hoary  panicle.     The  grand 

Horizon's  azure  orb  one  wheat-stem  fills. 


A   WHEAT-STALK.  199 

Kindly  perspective !     Little  things  close  by 

Exceed  great  things  remote :  for  Nature's  art 
Brings  vision  to  a  centre  in  the  eye, 

Affection  to  a  centre  in  the  heart. 
And,  were  it  not  so,  light  and  love  would  be 

Lost  wanderers ;  and  the  universal  frame 
A  heap  of  fragments;  and  the  force  to  see, 

The  force  to  feel,  mere  force  without  an  aim. 


VI. 

O  near  ones,  dear  ones !  you,  in  whose  right  hands 

Our  own  rests  calm;  whose  faithful  hearts  all  day 
Wide  open  wait  till  back  from  distant  lands 

Thought,  the  tired  traveller,  wends  his  homeward 
way! 
Helpmates   and    hearthmates,  gladdeners    of  gone 
years, 

Tender  companions  of  our  serious  days, 
Who  colour  with  your  kisses,  smiles,  and  tears 

Life's  warm  web  woven  over  wonted  ways, 

Young  children,  and  old  neighbours,  and  old  friends, 

Old  servants — you,  whose  smiling  circle  small 
Grows  slowly  smaller  till  at  last  it  ends 

Where  in  one  grave  is  room  enough  for  all, 
O  shut  the  world  out  from  the  heart  you  cheer! 

Tho'  small  the  circle  of  your  smiles  may  be. 
The  world  is  distant,  and  your  smiles  are  near. 

This  makes  you  more  than  all  the  world  to  me. 


200  LOST  TREASURES. 

LOST  TREASURES. 

PART    I. 

It  was  the  splendid  winter-tide, 

And  all  the  land  was  thrilling  white, 

In  a  solemn  and  songless  sunshine  wide, 

Whose  gorgeous  uncongenial  light 

Harden'd  whatever  it  glorified. 

And  while  that  glory  was  streaming  amber 

Into  a  childhood-haunted  chamber, 

A  child,  at  play  by  the  lattice-sill, 

Where  daily  the  redbreasts  begging  came, 

Noticed  a  glittering  icicle 

That  flash'd  in  the  sun  like  a  frozen  flame. 

So,  plucking  it  oflF,  he  seized  and  put  it 

Into  a  box  of  gilded  paper. 

There,  to  be  treasured  for  ever,  shut  it. 

Danced  about  it  with  shout  and  caper, 

And  then,  as  a  child  will  do,  forgot  it. 

For  suddenly  under  the  lattice  roU'd 

A  music  of  cymbal  and  trumpet  blent. 

And,  oh  merry  and  brave  it  was  to  behold 

The  soldiers  below,  who  in  scarlet  and  gold 

Marching  blithe  to  the  music  went. 

And  after  the  soldiers,  cleaving  the  cold 

Slantwise,  shot  like  a  falling  arrow, 

And  perch'd  on  the  sill  of  the  lattice,  a  bold, 

Bright-eyed,  sharp-beak'd,  hungry  sparrow; 

Claiming,  with  saucy,  sidelong  head. 

His  accustom'd  alms  of  a  crumb  of  bread, 

Tho'  to  get  what  he  ask'd  he  would  not  stop, 

But  off,  with  a  pert,  impatient  hop. 

Went  twittering  over  the  roof  instead. 


LOST  TREASURES.  201 

Next  follow'd  far  more  than  a  man  can  mention 
Of  indoor  claims  on  a  child's  attention. 
And  at  last  'twas  a  whip  to  whip  the  top, 
And  "Oh,  where  is  Grandfather?  'tis  he  must 

find  one! " 
Then  away  in  a  hurry  the  small  feet  trot, 
Yet  pause :  for  that  icicle,  first  forgot, 
And  then  remember'd  all  in  a  minute, 
It  were  surely  a  pity  to  leave  behind  one. 
So  the  treasure-box,  with  the  treasure  in  it, 
Their  tiny  treasurer  carries  away. 
But  ah,  what  sorrowful  change  is  this 
In  the  box  where  safely  the  bright  gem  lay 
Erewhile,  a  secretly-beaming  bliss 
To  beautify  many  a  winter's  day  ? 
For,  drop  by  drop,  is  the  drench'd  box  dripping, 
And  the  gilded  paper  is  all  undone, 
And,  away  in  a  shower  of  warm  tears  slipping, 
The  deceitful  treasure  is  well-nigh  gone. 
So,  weeping  too,  with  the  woeful  story 
(In  a  passion  of  grief  unreconciled 
For  the  lost  delight  of  a  vanisht  glory) 
To  the  old  man  hastens  the  troubled  child. 


Lone  by  the  old  hearth  was  the  old  man  sitting. 
He,  too,  a  treasure-box  had  on  his  knee ; 
And  slowly,  slowly,  like  sad  snow-flakes  flitting 
Down  from  the  weak  boughs  of  a  wither'd  tree. 
Fell  from  his  tremulous  fingers,  wet  with  tears, 
Into  the  embers  of  the  old  hearth's  fire, 
Wan  leaves  of  paper  yellow'd  by  long  years : 
Letters,  that  once  were  treasures. 


202  LOST  TREASURES. 

The  Grandsire 
Welcomed  the  infant  with  a  kind,  faint  smile. 
The  burning  letters,  black  and  wrinkled,  rose 
Along  the  gusty  flue ;  and  there  awhile 
(Like  one  who,  doubtful  of  the  way  he  goes, 
Lingers  and  hesitates)  along  the  dark 
They  hover'd  and  delay'd  their  ghostly  flight, 
Thin  sable  veils  wherein  a  restless  spark 
Yet  trembled! — and  then  pass'd  from  hum.an  sight. 
How  oft  had  human  eyes  in  days  of  yore 
Above  them  beam'd,  and  with  what  tender  light! 
Wherefore,  O  wherefore,  had  those  eyes  no  more 
Upon  them  gazed  for  many  a  heedless  year? 
Was  not  the  record  which  those  eyes  had  read 
With  such  bright  rapture  in  each  blissful  tear 
Still  writ  in  the  same  letters,  which  still  said 
The  self-same  words  ?     Ah !  why  not  now,  as  then. 
With  the  same  power  to  brighten   those  changed 

eyes? 
Why  should  such  looks  such  letters  meet  again 
As  strangers?  each  to  each  a  sad  surprise  ! 
"  How  pale,"  the  eyes  unto  the  letters  said, 
"  And  wan,  and  weak,  and  yellow  are  ye  grown  !  " 
And  to  the  eyes  the  letters,  "Why  so  red 
About  the  rims,  and  wrinkled  ?     Eyes  unknown, 
Nor  ever  seen  before,  to  us  ye  seem. 
Save  for  a  something  in  the  depths  of  you 
Familiar  to  us,  like  a  life-like  dream 
So  well  remember'd  it  almost  seems  true !  " 


The  grandchild  weeps  upon  the  grandsire's  knee, 

And  babbles  of  his  treasure  fled  away. 

The  old  man  listens  to  him  patiently. 

And  tells  the  child,  as  tho'  great  news  were  there, 


LOST  TREASURES,  203 

Old  tales  which  well  the  child  already  knows, 
And  smoothes  his  tumbled  curls,  and  comforts  him. 
The  winter  day  is  darkening  to  its  close, 
On  the  old  hearth  the  dying  fire  grows  dim. 

PART    III. 

The  child  upon  the  old  man's  breast  was  sleeping, 
The  old  man  stiller  than  the  sleeping  child  I 
Then  slowly,  softly,  near  and  nearer  creeping 
From  book-shelves  dark,  and  dusty  papers  piled, 
Old  thoughts,  old  memories  of  the  days  of  old, 
Which  lurk'd  about  that  old  room  everywhere, 
Hidden  in  many  a  curtain's  quiet  fold, 
Panel,  or  picture-frame,  or  carven  chair, 
All  silent,  in  the  silence,  one  by  one, 
Came  from  between  the  long-unlookt-at  leaves 
Of  old  books;  rose  up  from  the  old  hearth-stone; 
Descended  from  the  old  roofs  oaken  eaves; 
Laid  spectral  hand  in  hand  by  twos  and  threes, 
And  then  by  tens  and  twenties;  circled  dim 
Around  the  old  man,  on  whose  tranquil  knees 
Still  slept  the  infant;  and,  saluting  him, 
The  eldest  vvhisper'd,  "  Dost  thou  know  us  not? 
Many  are  we  who  come  to  take  farewell. 
For  all  departs  at  last.     Ay,  even  the  thought 
Of  what  hath  been.     Sunbeam  and  icicle, 
Childhood  and  age !   The  joys  of  childhood  perish 
Before  the  heats  of  manhood;  manhood's  heats 
Before  the  chills  of  age.     Whate'er  ye  cherish. 
As  whatsoe'er  ye  sufier,  fades  and  fleets. 
What  goes  not  with  the  heat,  goes  with  the  cold. 
For  all  that  comes,  goes  also.     What  ye  call 
Life,  is  no  more  than  dyings  manifold. 
All  changes,  all  departs,  all  ends.     All,  all ! " 


204  ONL  Y  A  SHA  VING. 


ONLY  A  SHAVING. 

I. 

A  CHILD,  as  from  school  he  was  bounding  by. 
Near  the  wall  of  a  carpenter's  workshop  found 
A  lustrous  shaving  that  lured  his  eye ; 
And  this  treasure  he  timidly  pick'd  from  the  ground. 
The  thing  was  tender,  transparent,  light, 
Silk-soft,  odorous,  vein'd  so  fine 
With  rosy  waves  in  the  richest  white, 
Rare  damask  of  dainty  design  I 


With  awe  he  touch'd  it,  and  turned  it  o'er. 

He  had  never  seen  such  a  wonder  before. 

And,  gay  as  a  ringlet  of  golden  hair, 

It  had  floated  and  fallen  down  at  his  feet ; 

Where,  fluttering  faint  in  each  breath  of  bright  air, 

It  lay  bathed  by  the  sunshine  sweet. 


The  boy  was  a  widow's  sireless  son. 
A  poor  dame,  pious  and  frugal,  she. 
Brothers  and  sisters  he  had  none. 
Playmates  and  playthings  few  :  and  he 
Was  gentle,  and  dreamy,  and  pure,  as  one 
To  whom  most  pleasures  privations  be 
Ere  childhood's  playing  is  done. 

IV. 

He  would  like  to  have  taken  his  treasure  away. 
*'  But  what,"  he  thought,  "  would  my  mother  say  ? 


ONL  V  A  SHA  VING.  205 

As  he  wistfully  eyed  the  window'd  wall 

Whence  down  from  the  casement  of  some  ground 

floor 
He  thought  he  had  seen  the  fair  thing  fall. 
Then  he  knock'd  at  the  half-shut  door. 


Near  it  the  sturdy  head  workman  stood. 

He  was  busily  planing  a  plank  of  wood. 

His  arms  were  up  to  the  elbows  bare, 

Brawny  and  brown  as  the  branch  of  an  oak, 

And  heavy  with  muscle  and  dusky  with  hair. 

Down  over  his  forehead  and  face  in  a  soak, 

(For  the  heat  of  his  labour  had  left  them  wet) 

Fell  mane-like,  matted,  and  black  as  jet, 

A  huge  unkempt  and  cumbrous  coil 

Of  stubborn  curls ;  that  to  forehead  and  face, 

Gave  a  savage  look  as  he  stoop'd  at  his  toil, 

With  many  a  sullen  and  sooty  trace 

Of  the  glue-pot's  grease  and  the  workshop's  soil. 

His  shirt — last  Sunday,  though  coarse,  as  clean 

As  the  parson's  own, — this  Friday  noon 

Had  the  hue  of  the  shift  of  that  famous  queen 

Who  took  Granada,  but  not  so  soon 

As  her  oath  was  taken.     This  man  had  seen 

The  gentle  child  at  the  door,  and  thought 

"  'Tis  the  child  of  a  customer  come  with  a  message. 

•*  Pray,  what  has  my  little  master  brought  ? 

Or  what  may  he  want?  "  With  no  cheerful  piesage 

At  the  sight  of  his  grim-faced  questioner, 

A  few  faint  words  the  poor  child  stammers, 

Words  unheard  'mid  the  noisy  stir 

Of  the  hissing  saws  and  the  beating  hammers. 


2o6  ONL  Y  A  SHA  VING. 

When,  abasht  and  blushing,  he  stands  deterr'd 
With  a  fluttering  heart  like  a  frighten'd  bird ; 

As  he  holds  the  shaving  out  in  his  hand, 
Timidly  gazing  at  that  strange  prize. 


The  workman  was  puzzled  to  understand 
This  gracious  vision.     He  rubbed  his  eyes. 
Is  it  vainly  such  visions  come  and  go 
In  flashes  across  life's  labouring  way? 
We  uplift  the  forehead  and  fain  would  know 
"What  to  think  of  them.     Whence  come  they  ? 
For  they  burst  upon  us  and  brighten  the  air 
For  a  moment  round  us,  and  melt  away, 
Lost  as  we  longingly  look  at  them. 


VII. 

"Hi! 
Silence,  all  of  you  hands  down  there!  " 
And  you  might  have  heard  the  hum  of  a  fly 
In  the  hush  of  the  suddenly  silenced  place. 
"  What  is  it,  my  child?  "     With  a  glowing  face- 
"Sir,"  said  the  child,  "  I  was  passing  by. 
And  I  saw  it  fall,  as  I  pass'd  below, 
From  the  window,  I  think.     So,  as  it  fell  near, 
I  have  pick'd  it  up,  and  I  bring  it  you  now." 
'*  Bring  what  ?  "     **  This  beautiful  ringlet  here. 
Have  you  not  miss'd  it?     It  must,  I  know, 
Have  been  hard  to  make.     I  have  taken  care. 
The  wind  was  blowing  it  round  the  wall. 
And  I  never  saw  anything  half  so  fair. 
But  it  is  not  broken,  I  think,  at  all." 


ONL  V  A  SHA  VING,  207 


VIII. 

A  'prentice  brat,  whose  cheek  was  puft 

With  a  burst  of  laughter  ready  to  split, 

Turn'd  pale,  by  a  single  glance  rebuft 

Of  that  workman's  eye,  which  had  noticed  it. 

And  the  man  there,  shaggy  and  black  as  a  bear, 

Nor  any  the  sweeter  for  sweat  and  glue, 

Laid  a  horny  hand  on  the  child's  bright  hair, 

With  a  gentle  womanly  gesture  drew 

The  child  up  softly  on  to  his  knees. 

And  gazed  in  its  eyes  till  his  own  eyes  grew 

Humid  and  red  at  the  lims  by  degrees. 

IX. 

"  Wliat  is  thine  age,  fair  child?  "  he  said. 
"  Five,  next  June."     *'  And  it  pleases  thee. 
This.  .  .  ringlet-thing?"     The  small  bright  head 
Nodded.     He  put  the  child  from  his  knee. 
Swept  from  the  bench  a  whole  curly  clan 
Of  such  shavings,  and,  "  Hold  up  thy  pinafore. 
There,  they  are  thine.     Run  away,  little  man!  " 
"  Mine  ?  "     "  All  thine."     Then  he  open'd  the  door, 
Stoop'd,  and  .  .    .  was  it  a  sigh  or  a  prayer 
That,  as  into  the  sunshine  the  sweet  child  ran, 
Away  with  it  pass'd  in  its  golden  hair  ? 


Anon,  when  the  hubbub  again  began 
Of  hammer  and  saw  in  the  workshop  there. 
This  workman  paused  from  his  work ;  and  stood 
Looking  awhile  (as  though  vexed  by  the  view) 
At  the  shape  which  his  work  had  bequeathed  to  the 
wood. 


2o8    QUESTIONABLE  CONSOLATION. 


Then  he  turn'd  him  about,  and  abruptly  drew 
His  pipe  from  his  pocket,  and  stufTd  it,  and  lit, 
And  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  the  open  door, 
And  smoked,  and  smoked.     And  in  circles  blue 
As  the  faint  smoke  wander'd  the  warm  air  o'er, 
Still  he  sat  dreamily  watching  it 
Rise  like  a  ghost  from  the  grimy  clay, 
And  hover,  and  linger,  and  fade  away. 


XII. 

I  know  not  what  were  his  thoughts.     But  I  know 
There  be  shavings  that  down  from  a  man's  work  fall 
Which  the  man  himself,  as  they  drop  below, 
Haply  accounts  of  no  worth  at  all ; 
And  I  know  there  be  children  that  prize  them  more 
Than  the  man's  true  work,  be  its  worth  what  it  may. 
And  I  think  that  (albeit  'twas  not  half  o'er) 
This  workman  turn'd  from  his  work  that  day. 
Having,  just  then,  nor  wish  nor  will 
To  go  on  planing  a  coffin  still. 


QUESTIONABLE  CONSOLATION. 


A  BUTTERFLY  (and  had  the  wretch  been  born 
With  all  the  beauties  that,  at  best,  adorn 
A  butterfly's  complete  perfection,  still 
He  but  a  butterfly  had  been,  at  best) 


QUESTIONABLE  CONSOLATION.    209 

Came  into  life  a  cripple ;  dispossest 

Of  half  his  natural  features;  born  i'  the  chill, 
Bletnisht,  and  misbegotten ;  an  abortion 
Doom'd  from  the  birth  to  suffering  and  distortion. 

II. 

One  wing  unfinisht,  and  misshapen  one : 
Six  legs  he  had,  but  of  his  six  legs  none 

That  served  the  purpose  for  which  legs  are  made : 
The  piteous  pivot  of  his  own  distress, 
Aye  with  self-torturing  unsteadiness 

About  himself  he  turn'd ;  and  found  no  aid 
In  aught  that  life  vouchsafed  him,  leg  or  wing 
To  life's  attainment  of  one  wisht-for  thing. 

III. 

He  saw  the  others  hovering  in  the  sun ; 

He  saw  them  seek  each  other;  saw  them  shun 

Each  other,  by  each  other  to  be  sought ; 
He  saw  them  (each,  itself,  a  second  flower) 
On  flowers,  entranced  by  the  transcendent  power 

Of  their  own  happiness;  he  saw  them,  fraught 
With  frolic  rapture,  fearless  wantons  all ! 
And  saw  himself,  unable  even  to  crawl. 

IV. 

"  And  I,"  he  thought,  "  I  too,  was  meant  to  be 
A  winged  joy,  a  wandering  ecstasy ! 

Ah,  must  I  envy,  for  his  happier  lot, 
The  wingless  worm  that  hath,  complete,  whate'er 
As  worm  he  wants ;  who  wants  no  more,  to  fare 

Thro*  life  content ;  by  life  defrauded  not 
Of  what  mere  life  makes  capable  of  joy 
Even  in  a  worm  ?  still  happier  far  than  I ! 

720 


2IO   QUESTIONABLE  CONSOLATION. 

V. 

'*  I,  to  whom  life  refuses  all  things  I  all 
Life's  joy  in  earth,  air,  water  I     Still  too  tall 

The  tiniest  stem  that  bears  the  lowliest  flower 
For  me  to  climb!  too  rough  air's  lightest  sigh 
For  me  to  ride  I  the  nearest  dewdrop,  dry 

Ere  I  can  reach  it !     All,  beyond  my  power ! 
All,  save  to  disappear — go  down — go  by — 
Sink  out  of  life,  not  having  lived — and  die  I  " 


VI. 

The  dying  sun  the  insect's  dying  moan 
O'crheard,  and  answer'd  from  his  falling  throne, 

**  Mourn  not!  I,  even  I,  the  sun,  go  down. 
Sink,  and  drop  into  darkness.  Look  at  me!  " 
— He  sinks.     In  pompous  purple  pillows  he. 

His  kingly  forehead,  girt  with  golden  crown, 
And,  slowly,  with  delight  his  gaze  grows  dim, 
Seeing  earth's  sadness  for  the  loss  of  him. 


VII. 

Delicious  homage  of  a  dear  dismay 
Paid  to  the  happy,  when  they  pass  away, 

By  grief  not  theirs!     Beneath  him,  prostrate,  lies 
A  world  that  worships  him;  and  everywhere 
Therein  he  finds  some  record  rich  and  fair 

Of  his  own  power.     He  sinks:  and  wistful  eyes 
His  pathway  follow  to  its  glorious  bourn. 
He  sinks:  and  longing  voices  sigh  "  Return  !  " 


QUESTIONABLE  CONSOLATION,  211 

VIII. 

He  passes:  but  he  hath  not  pass'd  in  vain. 
He  passes,  proving  by  life's  loss  its  gain, 

And  bearing  with  him  what  he  leaves  behind. 
He  goes:  rejoicing,  "All  that  I  have  given 
Memoiy  makes  mine  again,  and  makes  it  even 

Mine  more  completely  than  before.     I  shined 
Rising  and  setting.     All  my  light  was  shown, 
And  all  my  force  was  felt."     Thus  suns  go  down. 


The  boastful  orb's  last  glories,  lingering, 

That  cripple  smote.     " Go,  glories!  tell  your  king, 

Smiling,  he  said,  "go,  him  that  sent  you  tell, 
Not  all  so  wretched  as  I  deem'd  was  I. 
Since  I  have  seen  how  suns  go  down,  thereby 

School'd  have  I  been  to  know,  and  value  well, 
What  they,  the  happy, — they  that  have  it  not, — 
Would  fain  filch  even  from  a  wretch's  lot, 


The  grandeur  of  its  utter  desolation." 

All  glowing  with  rebuke  and  shamed  vexation 

The  braggart  sun's  resentful  blushes  burst. 
As  o'er  the  deep,  whose  surface,  and  no  more. 
His  glory  gilt,  he,  slowly  sinking,  bore 

This  knowledge  gain'd :  that  Misery  at  her  worst 
Hath  one  poor  grace  of  tragic  interest 
Proud  Pleasure  vainly  envies  at  his  best. 


212  GLEN  A  VERIL. 


From  "  GLEN  A  VERIU 


PART  I.,  CANTO  II. 


O  youth,  O  childhood,  fugitive  angels  you, 

That  once,  gone  back  to  Heaven,  return  no  more  ! 

In  vain  our  hearts  invoke  you  to  renew 
The  joys  that  followed  you ;  in  vain  implore. 

The  bounty  of  a  single  drop  of  dew. 

That  perisht  with  you  from  our  paths  before 

We  knew  you  gone.     The  only  dew  that  wets 

Those  pathways  now  falls  there  from  vain  regrets. 


Regrets  that  while  you  lingered  here  below. 
We  knew  not  that  ye  would  so  soon  depart. 

Regrets  that  you  are  gone  ;  regrets  to  know 
That  you  will  come  no  more  ;  regrets  that  start 

To  life  at  every  backward  glance  we  throw, 
Regrets  that  cling  to  the  discouraged  heart 

When  all  the  joys  that  smile  on  later  years 

Lost  youth's  memento  morty  fills  with  tears. 


GLENA  VERIL.  213 

III. 
Oh,  Heaven !  to  have  been  young,  and  all  youth  was, 

AH  we  have  felt  and  cannot  feel  again, 
Still  to  remember  and  to  find,  alas. 

That  the  remembrance  of  lost  joy  is  pain! 
*Tis  ever  drinking  from  an  empty  glass. 

Better  the  full  glass  broken,  than  the  vain, 
Importunate  wild  cravings,  that  caress, 
With  pining  lips  its  perfect  emptiness  I 

IV. 

Full  in  the  fresh  delight  of  victory. 

Young  warriors  !     In  your  bridal  garments  drest, 
On  your  death  biers  young  virgin  brides  go  by  I 

Perish,  young  infants,  on  your  mother's  breast ! 
And  you  in  love's  first  kiss,  young  lovers  die, 

Dreaming  of  beauty  still  to  be  possest ! 
Let  earth,  thro'  you,  whose  bliss  no  memory  mars. 
Send  up  one  happy  message  to  the  stars ! 


Say  to  them,  you,  **  O  wistful  stars,  down  there, 
Hid  in  the  depths  of  night's  primeval  dome 

From  your  bright  eyes,  that  seek  her  everywhere. 
Happiness  dwells.     From  her  abode  we  come. 

There  have  we  seen  and  known  her ;  and  we  bear 
This  message  of  the  earth,  her  human  home. 

From  star  to  star,  through  all  your  shining  mists 

Of  suns  and  planets,  *  Happiness  exists  '  !  " 

VI. 

Why  do  the  stars  with  such  reproachful  eyes 
Search  all  the  dismal  avenues  of  night  ? 

What  questions  that  admit  of  no  replies 
Come  trembling  to  us  on  their  plaintive  light 


214  GLENAVERIL. 

"  Alas  !  "  they  seem  to  say,  **  earth's  look  belies 
The  tidings  carried  in  their  heavenward  flight, 
By  these  young  messengers  she  sent  us.    Yes, 
They  sung  to  us  of  earthly  happiness." 


"  What  have  you  done  with  it  ?     Where  is  it  ?     Who 
Are  its  possessors  ?     Yonder  man,  that  glides 

Down  the  dark  alley  stealthily,  below 

His  cloak  gleams  something  that  he  grasps  and  hides, 

But  can  it  be  his  happiness  ?     Ah,  no  ! 

Ilark  !  through  the  sleeping  house  what  harsh  sound 
grides, 

r  the  shuttered  dark  ?      Doth  happiness  emit 

That  sullen  cry?  or  is  it  the  centre-bit? 


Is  it  for  happiness  dark  hands  explore 

Those  rummaged  coffers  ?     Is  it  happiness 

You  woman,  hovering  by  the  half-shut  door, 
On  every  passing  stranger  strives  to  press  ? 

W^ho  are  earth's  happy  ones  ?  and  where  their  store 
Of  undiscoverable  earthly  bliss  ? 

Lurks  it  beneath  the  lids  of  eyes  that  keep 

Its  stolen  treasures  only  while  they  sleep  ?  " 


What  to  such  questioners  can  we  reply  ? 

Is  all  earth's  happiness  a  heartless  boast  ? 
Is  it  not  lest  the  legend  of  earth's  joy 

Should  all  too  soon  become  a  legend  lost, 


HUMAN  DESTINIES.  2 1 S 

That  in  their  unsuspecting  youth  they  die 

Who  still  believe  in  it  ?    And  we  (sad  host 
Of  mourners  !)  hide  our  griefs,  and  whisper  low, 
Lest  them,  and  it,  our  voice  should  disavow. 


X. 

For  who  would  blast  what  those  young  lips  have 
blest  ? 

Or  who  the  promise  they  proclaimed,  belie? 
For  their  sakes,  Sorrow,  in  thine  aching  breast 

Stifle  the  vain,  involuntary  sigh! 
For  their  sakes,  Misery,  be  thy  groans  suppressed  ! 

And  smile,  Old  Agel     Lo,  as  thou  limpest  by, 
Along  the  hedge,  the  honeysuckle  flings, 
Her  frolic  blossom  and  the  linnet  sings ! 


HUMAN  DESTINIES. 

Some  childhoods  are  there,  that  impatient  pass 
Into  life's  sewer  of  common  cares,  almost 

As  rapid  as  the  rinsings  of  a  glass 

Down  from  the  garret  to  the  gutter  tost 

By  some  wild  Magdalen,  whose  midnight  mass 
Is  a  libation  to  the  unlaid  ghost 

Of  her  slain  innocence.     Where  such  drops  fall 

No  blossoms  spring.     The  gutter  takes  them  all. 


Others  there  be,  whose  days  are  drops  of  dew 
That  softly,  droplet  after  droplet,  sliding 


2i6  HUMAN  DESTINIES. 

From  flower  to  flower,  in  sheltered  peace  pursue 
Hushed  grassy  courses;  all  their  sweetness  hiding, 

Till  from  its  silent  growth  a  rivulet  new 
The  woodland  wins,  along  whose  wavelets  gliding 

On  sunbeams  and  on  moonbeams,  fearless  elves 

Under  dim  forest  leaves,  disport  themselves. 


And  there's  a  beauty  that  demands  the  light, 
Bursting  like  glory  from  the  battle  plain, 

Full-blown.     A  whole  world's  homage  is  its  right ; 
The  sun  is  not  solicited  in  vain ; 

He  shines  to  be  admired  ;  from  alpine  height 

To  height,  from  shore  to  shore,  from  main  to  main, 

The  god  goes  radiant,  gilding,  as  it  rolls. 

Each  wave  between  the  Indus  and  the  Poles. 


But  ah  !  that  beauty  born  beneath  the  veil. 
The  Isis  of  the  heart !     By  many  a  fold 

Its  mystic  vesture  tells  the  silent  tale 

Of  charms  that  eyes  profane  may  not  behold. 

^Vl^ilst  to  its  own  appointed  priest  the  pale 
Composure  of  the  sacred  image,  stoled 

In  sweet  repose,  if  ruffled  not,  reveals 

The  secret  it  from  all  beside  conceals. 


Lift  not  the  veil  !     Divined  in  silence,  leave 
The  beauty  hid  beneath  its  holy  hem  ! 

Poesy,  Childhood,  Faith,  Love,  Passion,  weave 
(Like  the  wise  moth,  ere  round  the  rose's  stem 


THE  FAMILY  BOARD,  217 

With  wavering  joy  his  budded  winglets  heave) 

O'er  them  a  mystery  that  shehers  them 
From  the  rude  touch  and  the  inquisitive  eye. 
Lift  not  the  veil ;  but  worship  and  pass  by  ! 


THE  FAMILY  BOARD. 

If  in  thy  jaded  spirit  thou  wouldst  feel 
One  hour  of  pure  repose,  and  with  repose 

A  careless  joy  ! — go,  join  some  family  meal ! 
How  calm  and  full  of  cheerfulness  life  grows 

Where,  round  one  board,  the  commonplace  appeal 
Of  daily  habit  hath  assembled  those 

Who  dwell  within  its  kind,  familiar  fold, 

In  unison  together,  young  and  old  ! 


What  sparkling  expectation  fills  with  light, 
The  children's  eyes !     How  softly,  one  by  one 

From  each  parental  forehead,  out  of  sight. 

Fade  the  smoothed  puckers,  as  the  meal  goes  on. 

How  sociality  aids  appetite 
To  improve  the  charm  which  it  bestows  upon 

Plain  wholesome  dishes  that  are  not  "  too  good 

And  bright  foir  hmman  nature's  daily  food." 

The  children's  rippling  prattle  that  promotes 

The  parents'  grave,  unruffled  gaiety, 
Like  rivulets  revelling  along  flowery  moats 

Into  calm  rivers,  they  enrich  thereby 


2i8  THE  FAMILY  BOARD, 

Chance  questions,  light  replies ;  gay  anecdotes, 

Laughter,  not  loud  but  full  of  innocent  joy, 
The  gurgling  bottle  and  the  chinking  glass, 
And  little  jokes  that  jostle  as  they  pass  I 

The  multifarious  mirthfulness  of  these 
Interfluent  sounds  continued  hovering 

Around  that  table,  like  the  restless  bees 
That  haunt  the  honied  banquets  of  the  Spring, 

And  in  exchange  for  sweets  and  essences. 
Music  and  merriment  to  the  blossoms  bring, 

As  coming,  going,  humming,  glowing  they, 

From  flower  to  flower  inquisitively  stray. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH.  219 


From  ''AFTER  PARADISE;  OR, 
LEGENDS  OF  EXILED 


NORTH   AND   SOUTH. 


Far  in  the  southern  night  she  sleeps; 

And  there  the  heavens  are  husht,  and  there, 
Low  murmuring  from  the  moonlit  deeps, 

Faint  music  lulls  the  dreamful  air. 
No  tears  on  her  soft  lashes  hang, 

On  her  calm  lips  no  kisses  glow. 

The  throb,  the  passion,  and  the  pang 

Are  over  now. 


But  I?     From  this  full-peopled  north. 
Whose  midnight  roar  around  me  stirs, 

How  wildly  still  my  heart  goes  forth 
To  haunt  that  silent  home  of  hers ! 


220  CINTRA. 

There  night  by  night,  with  no  release, 
These  sleepless  eyes  the  vision  see, 
And  all  its  visionary  peace 
But  maddens  me. 


ATHENS. 

The  burnt-out  heart  of  Hellas  here  behold  ! 

Quench'd  fire-pit  of  the  quick  explosive  Past, 
Thought's  highest  crater — all  its  fervours  cold, 
Ashes  and  dust  at  last ! 

And  what  Hellenic  light  is  living  now 

To  gild,  not  Greece,  but  other  lands,  is  given; 
Not  where  the  splendour  sank,  the  after-glow 
Of  sunset  stays  in  heaven. 

But  loud  o'er  Grecian  ruins  still  the  lark 
Doth,  as  of  old,  Hyperion's  glory  hail. 
And  from  Hymettus,  in  the  moonlight,  hark 
The  exuberant  nightingale  1 


CINTRA. 


I. 


In  the  brake  are  creaking 

The  tufted  canes. 
And  the  wind  is  streaking 

With  fugitive  stains 
A  welkin  haunted  by  hovering  rains. 


CINTRA  221 


ii; 


Low  lemon-boughs  under 

My  garden  wall, 
In  the  Quinta  yonder, 

By  fits  let  fall 
Here  an  emerald  leaf,  there  a  pale  gold  ball,  - 


III. 

On  the  black  earth,  studded 

With  droplets  bright 
From  the  fruit  trees,  budded, 

Some  pink,  some  white, 
And  now  overflooded  with  watery  light. 


IV. 

For  the  sun,  thro'  a  chasm 

Of  the  colourless  air. 
With  a  jubilant  spasm 
From  his  broken  lair 
Upleaps  and  stands,  for  a  moment,  bare! 


But  a  breath  bewilders 

The  wavering  weather; 
And  those  sky-builders 
That  put  together 
The  vaporous  walls  of  the  cloud-bound  ether 


CINTRA. 


•VI. 


From  the  mountains  hasten 

In  pale  displeasure 
To  mortice  and  fasten 

The  bright  embrazure, 
Shutting  behind  it  day's  innermost  azure. 


VII. 

On  the  bleak  blue  rim 
Of  the  lonesome  lea, 

Shapeless  and  dim 
As  far  things  at  sea, 
Mafra  yon  nebulous  clump  must  be ! 


VIII. 

Across  the  red  furrows 

To  where  in  the  sides 
Of  the  hills  he  burrows 

(As  a  reptile  hides) 
The  many-legg'd,  long-back'd,  aqueduct  strides 


Just  over  the  pines. 

As  from  tapers  snuffd, 
A  thin  smoke  twines 
Till  its  course  is  luff'd 
At  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  by  the  breeze  rebufTd. 


CINTRA.  223 


Whence,  downward  turning 

A  dubious  haze, 
(From  the  charcoal  burning) 

It  strays,  delays, 
And  departs  by  a  dozen  different  ways. 


The  chestnuts  shiver, 

The  olive  trees 
Recoil  and  quiver, 

Stung  by  the  breeze, 
Like  sleepers  awaked  by  a  swarm  of  bees. 


XII. 

Down  glimmering  lanes 

The  grey  oxen  go ; 
And  the  grumbling  wains 

They  drag  onward  slow 
Wail,  as  they  wind  in  a  woeful  row, 


XIII. 

With  fruits  and  casks 

To  the  seaside  land^ 
Where  Colares  basks 

In  a  glory  bland, 
And  from  gardens  o'erhanging  the  scented  sand 


224  C INTRA. 


XIV. 

Great  aloes  glisten 

And  roses  dangle. 
But  listen  !  listen ! 

The  mule-bells  jangle, 
Rounding  the  rock-hewn  path's  sharp  angle. 


As  their  chime  dies  out 
The  dim  woods  among, 

With  the  ghostly  shout 
And  the  distant  song 
Of  the  muleteers  that  have  pass'd  along, 


XVI. 

From  behind  the  hill 

Whence  comes  that  roar. 
Up  the  road  so  still 
But  a  minute  before  ? 
'Tis  a  message  arrived  from  the  grieved  sea- 
shore. 


XVII. 

And,  tho*  close  it  seems, 

Yet  from  far  away 
It  is  come,  as  in  dreams 

The  announcements  they 
To  the  souls  that  can  understand  convey. 


CINTRA.  225 


XVIII. 

For  whenever  you  hear, 

As  you  hear  it  now, 
That  sound  so  clear, 

You  may  surely  know 
Foul  weather's  at  hand,  tho*  no  wind  should 
blow. 


XIX. 

But  the  cork  wood  is  sighing, 

It  cannot  find  rest; 
And  the  raven,  flying 

Around  his  black  nest. 
Hath  signall'd  the  storm  to  the  Sierra's  crest. 


XX. 

Plaintive  and  sullen, 

Penal va  moans; 
The  torrents  are  swollen ; 
The  granite  bones 
Of  Cruzalta  crackle  with  split  pine  cones; 


XXI. 

Roused  and  uproarious 

The  huge  oaks  yell 
Till  the  ghost  of  Honorious 
Is  scared  from  his  cell, 
Where  not  even  a  ghost  could  in  quietude  dwell 

721 


226  CINTRA. 


XXII. 


For  the  woods  all  round 

Its  cork-clad  walls 
Are  storm'd  by  the  sound 

Of  the  waterfalls 
That  have  shatter'd  their  mountain  pedestals. 


XXIII. 

On  the  topmost  shelf 

Of  the  Pena,  fast 
As  the  rock  itself, 

In  a  cluster  vast 
Stood  castle  and  keep  but  a  moment  past; 


XXIV. 

Now,  in  what  to  the  sight 

Is  but  empty  air. 
They  are  vanisht  quite, 

And  the  sharp  peak,  bare 
As  a  shaven  chin,  is  upslanted  there. 


Can  a  film  of  cloud. 

Like  the  fiat  of  Fate, 
In  its  sightless  shroud 

Thus  obliterate 
The  ponderous  mass  of  a  pile  so  great  i 


CINTRA.  227 

XXVI. 

'Twas  a  fact,  yet  a  breath 
Has  that  fact  dispell'd. 
So  truth,  underneath 
A  cloud  compell'd 
To  hide  her  head,  is  no  more  beheld, 

XXVII. 

The  achievement  of  years, 

By  a  minute  effaced, 
Departs,  disappears. 

And  is  all  replaced 
By  a  cold  blank  colourless  empty  waste. 


All  forms,  alas, 

That  remain  or  flee 
As  the  winds  that  pass 
May  their  choice  decree, 
Stand  faster  far  than  have  stood  by  me. 


The  man  I  served, 

And  the  woman  I  loved. 
But  what  if  they  swerved 
As  their  faith  was  proved, 
When  a  mountain  can  be  by  a  mist  removed  ? 


228  A  SIGH. 

SORRENTO  REVISITED. 
(1885.) 


On  the  lizarded  wall  and  the  gold-orb'd  tree 
Spring's  splendour  again  is  shining; 

But  the  glow  of  its  gladness  awakes  in  me 
Only  a  vast  repining. 


II. 

To  Sorrento,  asleep  on  the  soft  blue  breast 
Of  the  sea  that  she  loves,  and  dreaming, 

Lone  Capri  uplifts  an  ethereal  crest 
In  the  luminous  azure  gleaming. 

III. 

And  the  Sirens  are  singing  again  from  the  shore. 

'Tis  the  song  that  they  sang  to  Ulysses; 
But  the  sound  of  a  song  that  is  sung  no  more 

My  soul  in  their  music  misses. 


A  SIGH. 

The  passion  and  the  pain  of  yore 
Slow  time  hath  still'd  in  vain, 

Since  all  that  I  can  feel  no  mors 
I  yearn  to  feel  again. 


STRANGERS.  229 

NECROMANCY. 

Why  didst  thou  let  me  deem  thee  lost  for  years, 

Youth  of  my  heart?  And,  now  that  I  have  shed 
O'er  thy  false  grave  long-since-forgotten  tears, 

And  put  away  my  mourning  for  the  dead, 
And  learn'd  to  live  without  thee  half  content, 

What  brings  thee  back  alive,  tho'  in  disguise  ? 
For  thou,  with  this  fair  stranger's  beauty  blent, 

Art  smiling  on  me  thro*  another's  eyes. 


STRANGERS. 

(a  rhapsody.) 

Children  are  born,  about  whose  lucid  brows 
The  blue  veins,  visibly  meandering,  stream 
Transparent :  children  in  whose  wistful  eyes 
Are  looks  like  lost  dumb  creatures  in  a  crowd, 
That  roam,  and  search,  and  find  not  what  they  seek. 
These  children  are  life's  aliens.     The  wise  nurse 
Shakes  her  head,  murmuring,  "  They  will  not  live  !" 
A  piteous  prophecy,  yet  best  for  them 
The  death  that,  pitifully  premature. 
Remits  the  pitiless  penalty  of  birth  ; 
Letting  the  lost  ones  steal  away  unhurt, 
Because  unnoticed,  from  a  world  not  theirs. 

Strangers  and  star-born  strayaways  forlorn, 
Who  come  so  careless  of  the  outlandish  wealth 
You  carry  with  you,  dropping  as  you  go 
Treasures  beyond  the  reach  of  Orient  Kings, 


230  STRANGERS. 

What  seek  you  here  where  your  unvalued  gifts 
Shall  leave  you  beggars  for  an  alms  denied  ? 
Earth  yields  not  their  equivalent.     No  field 
So  profitless  but  some  poor  price  it  hath  ; 
A  spurious  picture  or  a  spavin'd  horse 
INfay  find  in  time  their  willing  purchasers  ; 
But  never  for  its  worth  shall  you  exchange 
A  soul's  unmarketable  opulence. 
And  when  at  last,  of  those  who  (unenrich'd 
By  your  impov'rishment)  the  gift  forget, 
Your  thirst  and  hunger  crave  a  broken  crust, 
A  drop  of  water  from  the  wayside  well, 
Stripes  shall  correct  such  importunities. 

Linger  not  !  live  not  1  give  not  !     Hide  your  gifts, 

Ungiven,  deeper  than  Remembrance  digs 

Among  the  haunted  ruins  she  explores 

For  riches  lost.     And  if  abrupt  mischance 

Their  buried  store  reveal,  without  a  blush 

Disown  it,  for  a  lie  may  sometimes  save 

A  miser's  life.     The  truth  would  serve  as  well, 

Were  truth  not  unbelievable  ;  for,  stored 

In  coin  not  current  here  and  gems  unprized, 

Your  treasures  are  worth  nothing  to  the  wretch 

They  tempt  to  make  them,  by  a  murder,  his. 

But  this  the  assassins  know  not,  and  ill-arm'd, 

lU-arm'd  and  worse  than  weaponless,  are  you  ! 

To  whose  inefficacious  grasp  was  given 

In  solemn  mockery  the  seraphic  sword 

That  only  archangelic  hands  can  hold. 

Your  own  have  clutch'd  it  by  the  burning  blade, 

And,  when  you  wield  it,  'tis  yourselves  you  wound. 

You  that  have  Feeling,  think  you  to  have  all? 
Poor  fools,  and  you  have  absolutely  nought ! 


STRANGERS.  231 

In  reckonings  of  this  world's  arithmetic 
Everything  else  is  something  by  itself, 
Feeling  alone  is  nothing.     Could  you  add 
That  nothing  to  what  counts  for  anything, 
Forthwith  a  tenfold  potency  perchance 
The  unreckonable  zero  might  bestow 
Upon  the  reckon'd  unit.     But  what  boots 
A  value  so  vicarious? 

Yours  the  spell 
WTiose  all  transfigurating  sorceries 
Convert  the  dust  man  grovels  into  gold  ; 
Robing  the  pauper  royal  in  the  pomp 
Of  princely  exultations,  changing  night 
To  morning,  death  to  life,  the  wilderness 
To  paradise  ;  beautifying  pain, 
Cleansing  impurity,  and  strewing  thick 
The  gulphs  of  Hell  with  starry  gleams  of  Heaven. 
I'.ut  use  it  not !     Unsanction'd  miracles 
Are  sentenced  sins.     Writ  large  for  all  to  read, 
About  the  world's  street  corners  Reason  posts 
•'Beware  of  the  Miraculous!"     Whereto 
Prudence  appends,  the  placard  to  complete, 
**  Miracles  x\re  forbidden  !  "     Use  it  not, 
Your  gift  unblest  !     Lo,  Virtue's  High  Priest  comes, 
Calls  the  Sanhedrim's  long-phylacteried  train, 
Consults  the  scriptured  scrolls,  within  them  finds 
No  warrant  for  the  wonders  you  perform, 
And  them  and  you  doth  anathematise. 

Linger  not !  live  not  I  give  not !     All  your  gifts 
Shall  turn  to  stones  and  scourges  in  the  hands 
That  crave  them,  and  to  live  is  to  be  lost. 

Thou  starry  snowflake,  whose  still  flight  transforms 
The  frozen  crystal's  constellated  crown 


232  STRANGERS. 

To  an  ethereal  feather,  seek  not  here, 
Celestial  strangers,  seek  not  here  on  earth, 
Where  Purity  were  nameless  but  for  thee, 
The  warmth  that  wastes,  the  fervours  that  defile  1 
Upon  our  wither'd  branches  hang  not  thou 
Thy  votive  wreaths,  nor  our  bleak  paths  invest 
With  thy  pale  presence  I     Vainly  dost  thou  cling 
About  our  fasten'd  casements,  vainly  spread 
So  close  beside  our  doors  thy  spotless  couch. 
Behind  them  dwells  Ingratitude.     The  voice 
That  welcomed  thine  arrival  will  anon 
Resent  thy  lingering,  and  exclaim  "  Enough!  " 
Trust  not  the  looks  that  smile,  the  lips  that  sigh, 
•*  I  love   thee ! "     For  to-day  those  words  mean 

•'Come!" 
To-morrow  '*  Go  1 "     Men's  words  are  numberless. 
And  yet  in  man's  speech  only  the  same  word 
Means  **  No"  to-morrow  that  meant  "  Yes"  to-day. 

Linger  not,  live  not,  give  not,  you  forlorn 
Gift-laden  strangers!     With  your  gifts  ungiven, 
And  so  at  least  undesecrated,  die  1 


What  fills  with  such  invincibility 

The  frail  seed  striving  thro'  the  stubborn  soil  ? 

The  sun  so  long  one  herbless  spot  caress'd, 

That  in  the  darkling  germ  beneath  it  stirr'd 

A  tender  trouble,  and  that  trouble  seem'd 

A  promise.     * '  Can  it  be,  the  Sun  himself 

Hath  sought  me  ?     He  so  glorious,  he  so  great, 

And  I  so  dark,  so  insignificant  I 

Dear  Sun,  with  all  the  strength  thy  love  reveal'd, 

Responding  to  thy  summons,  I  am  here  !  " 


STRANGERS,  233 

And  the  rich  Ufe  of  granaried  Lybia  glows 
Revelling  already  in  a  single  grain. 

Doth  the  Sun  answer,    '  Little  one,  too  much  ^ 
Thou  hast  responded,  now  respond  no  more? 
No,  for  throughout  the  illimitable  heights 
And  deeps  of  boundless  Being,  to  attain 
It  scarce  suflSces,  at  the  most  and  best, 
To  tend  beyond  the  unattainable, 
And  too  much  love  is  still  not  love  enough. 
The  Sun  may  set,  but  all  his  rising  wrought 
To  life's  enraptured  consciousness  remains. 
The  Sun  disowns  not,  even  when  he  deserts, 
What  he  put  forth  his  fervours  to  evoke. 
Man's  love  alone  its  doing  disavows. 
And  makes  denial  of  its  dearest  deed. 


Beneath  a  dead  bird's  long-uncared-for  cage, 

That  hangs  forgotten  in  the  cloister'd  court 

Of  some  lone  uninhabitable  house, 

From  the  chink'd  pavement  slowly  creeping  comes 

A  thin  weak  stem  that  opens  like  a  heart. 

And  puts  forth  tenderly  two  tiny  hands 

Of  benediction  to  that  cage  forlorn. 

Then  dies,  as  tho'  its  little  life  had  done 

All  it  was  born  to  do.     The  flint-set  earth 

Requites  the  dead  bird's  gift— one  casual  seed, 

And  from  her  stony  breast  a  blossom  blows. 

But,  pouring  forth  Uranian  star-seed,  strew 
Incipient  heavens  thro'  all  the  hoUowness 
Of  human  gratitude  for  gifts  divine, 


234  STRANGERS, 

And  nothing  from  the  sowing  of  such  seed 
Shall  blossom  but  the  bitterness  of  death. 


O  that  the  throbbing  orb  of  this  throng'd  world, 

The  sun-led  seasons,  the  revolving  years, 

Day  with  his  glory,  night  with  all  her  stars, 

The  present,  and  the  future,  and  the  past, 

And  earth,  and  heaven,  should  but  a  bauble  be ! 

The  unvalued  gift  of  an  extravagant  soul, 

Given  undemanded,  broken  by  a  breath, 

The  sport  of  one  exorbitant  desire, 

The  easy  spoil  of  one  minute  mischance, 

And  all  for  nothing !     What  ?  the  unheedful  flint 

Spares  room  to  house  the  blossom  that  requites 

A  chance  seed  fallen  from  a  dead  bird's  cage, 

And  nothing,  nothing,  in  the  long-long  years, 

That  bring  to  other  losses  soon  or  late 

The  loss  of  loss  rernember'd,  shall  arise? 

Nothing,  not  even  a  penitential  tear, 

A  fleeting  sigh,  a  momentary  smile, 

The  benediction  of  a  passing  thought 

Of  pitiful  remembrance — to  repay 

The  quite-forgotten  gift  of  too-much  love ! 


All  other  loss  comparison  avails 
To  lessen,  and  all  other  ills  worse  ill 
May  mitigate.     Defeated  monarchs  find 
Cold  comfort  left  in  Caesar's  legions  lost : 
The  ruin'd  merchant  in  the  bankrupt  state : 
The  bedless  beggar  in  the  bed-rid  lord. 
The  sight  of  Niobe  dries  many  tears. 
And  by  the  side  of  open  graves  are  graves 
Long  seal'd,  like  old  wounds  cicatrised  by  time. 


STRANGERS,  235 

But  this  is  an  immitigable  ill, 

A  lastingly  incomparable  loss, 

A  forfeiture  of  refuge  that  exiles 

Its  victim  even  from  the  lonest  lodge 

Where  Misery's  leprous  outcasts  may  at  least 

Commiserate  each  other.     The  excess 

Of  one  o'erweening  moment  hath  usurpt 

The  whole  dominion  of  eternity; 

Yet  even  the  usurpation  was  a  fraud. 

For  what  seem'd  all  was  nothing;  and  its  dupes, 

Who  mourn  that  moment's  loss,  have  with  it  lost 

The  right  to  say  that  it  was  ever  theirs. 

Sceptic,  approach  and,  into  this  abysm 

Of  torment  gazing,  tremblingly  believe  ! 

Behold  in  Hell  the  soul's  appalling  proof 

Of  her  dread  immortality  !  What  else 

Could  for  a  moment  undestroy'd  endure 

The  least  of  such  annihilating  pangs  ? 

Transmute  them  into  corporal  sufferings.      Hurl 

Their  victim  from  the  visionary  top 

Of  some  sky'd  tower,  and  on  its  flinted  base 

Shatter  his  crumpled  carcass :  if  the  heart 

Still  beats,  lay  bare  each  lacerated  nerve 

And  sear  with  scorching  steel  the  sensitive  flesh : 

Or  lift  the  bleeding  ruins  of  the  wretch, 

Lay  them  in  down,  bandage  with  cruel  care 

The  broken  limbs,  and  nurse  to  life  again 

Their  swooning  anguish:  then  from  eyes  that  burn 

Chase  slumber,  and  to  lips  that  parch  deny 

Release  from  thirst.     It  boots  not !     Flesh  and  blood 

Death  to  his  painless  sanctuary  takes, 

And  life's  material  mechanism  stops. 

The  first  pang  is  the  last.     But  all  these  pangs 


236  STRANGERS. 

(And  add  to  these  what  worse,  if  worse  there  be. 
The  torturer's  teeming  art  hath  yet  devised) 
Attain  not  the  tenth  part  of  those  endured 
Without  cessation  by  the  soul  that  loves, 
When  love  is  only  suffering.     What  escape, 
What  refuge,  from  self-torment  hath  the  soul  ? 
Or  what  for  love  is  left  unoverthrown 
By  love's  own  overthrow  ? 

The  growth  of  love, 
Outgrowing  the  wide  girdle  of  the  world, 
Hath  in  itself  absorb'd  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
Life,  Death,  and  Thought's  illimitable  realm. 
Leaving  in  Time  no  moment,  and  in  Space 
No  point,  its  omnipresence  kindles  not 
To  palpitant  incandescence — and  what  then  ? 
A  word,  nay  not  so  much,  a  breath  unbreathed, 
A  look,  and  all  this  universe  of  love, 
Cramm'd  with  the  curse  of  Tantalus,  becomes 
A  pitiless  infinitude  of  fierce 
Importunate  impossibilities, 
Where  nothing  is  but  what  may  never  be. 

Fond  wretch,  with  those  insatiable  eyes, 

Among  the  ruins  of  a  world  destroy'd 

What  art  thou  seeking?     Its  destroyer?     Look! 

He  stands  before  thee.     And  thou  know'st  him  not. 

The  traitor  of  thy  perisht  universe 

Hath  perisht  with  it.     Nay,  that  world  and  he, 

Whose  creature  and  creator  was  thyself, 

Save  in  thyself  existed  not.     Away, 

Disown'd  survivor  of  what  never  was  ! 

There  is  a  sigh  that  hath  no  audible  sound, 


STRANGERS.  237 

And,  like  a  ghost  that  hath  no  visible  form, 

Breathing  unheard  thro'  solitudes  unseen, 

Its  presence  haunts  the  Desert  of  the  Heart. 

Fata  Morgana  I  Fair  Enchantress,  Queen 

Of  all  that  ever-quivering  quietness, 

There  dost  thou  dreaming  dwell,  and  there  create 

Those  fervid  desolations  of  delight, 

"Where  dwell  with  thee  the  joys  that  never  were ! 

And,  when  in  darkness  fades  the  phantom  scene, 

The  wizard  stars  that  nightly  trembling  light 

That  undiscover'd  loneliness  are  looks 

From  eyes  that  love  no  longer.     All  the  winds 

That  whisper  there  are  breaths  of  broken  vows 

And  perjured  promises.     The  pale  mirage 

That  haunts  the  simmering  hyaline  above 

Is  all  the  work  of  ghosts,  and  its  bright  wastes 

Teem  with  fantastic  spectres  of  the  swoons 

Of  prostrate  passions,  hopes  become  despairs, 

And  dreams  of  bliss  unblest.     In  that  weird  sky 

There  is  no  peace,  but  a  perpetual  trance 

Of  torturous  ecstasy.     Vext  multitudes 

Of  frantic  apparitions  mingle  there. 

And  part,  and  vanish,  waving  vaporous  arms 

Of  supplication — to  each  other  lured, 

And  by  each  other  pantingly  repulsed- 

The  goblin  picture  of  a  passionate  world 

Painted  on  nothingness  !     And  all  the  sands. 

Heaved  by  the  sultry  sighings  of  the  heart 

Of  this  unquietable  solitude. 

Are  waves  that  everlastingly  roll  on 

O'er  wrecks  deep-sunken  in  a  shoreless  sea 

^Vhose  bed  is  vast  oblivion.     Out  of  sight, 

Into  that  sea's  abysmal  bosom  pour'd, 

Flow  all  desires  unsatisfied,  all  pains 


238  URIEL. 

Unpitied,  all  affections  unfulfiU'd. 

And  sighs,  and  tears,  and  smiles  misunderstood. 

There  all  the  adventurous  argosies  that  sail'd 
In  search  of  undiscover'd  worlds,  reduced 
To  undiscoverable  wrecks,  remain. 
And  there  perchance,  at  last,  no  more  estranged 
From  all  around  them,  since  not  strangers  they 
Than   all   things   else,  where  all    things  else   are 

strange, 
In  that  wide  strangeness  unrejected  rest 

The  world's  rejected  strangers loves  unloved, 

And  lives  unlived,  and  longings  unappeased. 


URIEL. 

(A    MYSTERY.) 

DEDICATION. 

To  you,  the  dead  and  gone,  bright-eyed  Desires 
Whose  beauty  lights  no  more  my  dwindled  day, 
Here,  sitting  lone  beaide  forsaken  fires, 
I  dedicate  this  lay. 


f  HEARD  a  Voice  by  night,  that  called  to  me 

"Uriel!  Uriel!" 
The  night  was  dark,  and  nothing  could  I  see, 
Yet  knew  I  by  the  voice  that  it  was  She 


URIEL,  239 

Whom  my  soul  loves  so  well 

That  when  She  calls  Her  follower  I  must  he, 

Whether  She  call  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell. 


II. 

Then  to  the  Voice,  "  What  is  thy  will  ?  "  said  I. 
But  for  sole  response  thro'  the  darkness  fell, 
Repeated  with  the  same  importunate  cry, 
Mine  own  name  only,  "  Uriel !  Uriel !  " 
I  could  not  sleep  nor  rest  upon  my  bed, 
So  I  rose  up,  and  thro'  the  husht  house  pass'd 
With  steps  unlighted  (for  my  lamp  was  dead) 
Out  on  the  heath. 


III. 

That  Voice  flew  onward  fast, 
Still  calling,  and  still  onward  after  it 
I  followed,  far  outsped :  for  there,  beneath 
The  moonless  heaven,  not  even  a  marsh-fire  lit 
Night's  fearful  sameness;  and  athwart  the  heath, 
Not  fast  and  free  as  flew  the  Voice  that  led, 
But  halting  oft,  my  steps  went  stumblingiy. 
Each  footstep,  as  it  fell,  recoil'd  with  dread 
From  what  it  toucht ;  and,  tho'  I  could  not  see, 
I  felt  that,  where  I  trod,  the  plain  was  spread 
With  corpses.     Heap'd  so  thick  they  seem'd  to  be 
That  I,  at  every  moment,  fear'd  to  tread 
Upon  a  dead  man's  face.     Yet,  undeterr'd, 
My  feet  obey'd  a  will  not  mine,  whose  spell 
Their   course  constrain' d.      For  still  that  Voice  I 

heard,  ,, 

And  still  the  Voice  called  '*  Uriel!  Uriel! 


240  URIEL, 


At  last  a  livid  light  began  to  grow 

Low  down  in  heaven.     It  was  the  moon  that,  pent 

Behind  a  slowly  crumbling  cloud  till  now, 

Athwart  thin  flakes  of  worn-out  vapour  sent 

A  filmy  gleam.     And  I  could  see  thereby 

The  corpses  that  lay  litter'd  on  the  heath. 

Each  white  up-slanted  face  and  unshut  eye 

Was  staring  at  me  with  the  stare  of  death : 

Harnessed  in  rusty  meil  from  head  to  heel 

Was  each  dead  body :  and  each  dead  right  hand 

Grasp'd  by  the  hilt  a  blade  of  bloodstained  steel, 

But  broken  was  each  blade.     And,  while  I  scann'd 

Those  dead  men's  faces,  I  began  to  feel 

A  sadness  which  I  could  not  understand : 

But  unto  me  it  seem'd  that  I  had  seen, 

And  known,  and  loved  them,  somewhere,  long  ago: 

Tho'  when,  or  where,  and  all  that  was  between 

That  time  and  this  (if  what  perplexed  me  so 

With  mimic  memories  had  indeed  once  been) 

I  knew  no  longer.     On  this  fatal  plain 

Vast  battle  must  have  once  been  waged,  so  keen 

That  none  was  spared  by  the  relentless  foe 

For  unmolested  burial  of  the  slain. 


V. 

And,  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  wondering  why 
These  unrememberable  faces  seem'd 
Mysteriously  familiar  to  mine  eye. 
The  cloudy  light  that  on  their  corselets  gleam'd 
Grew  clearer,  and  a  sound  began  to  swell 
Moaning  along  the  heath  :  the  swarthy  sky 


URIEL.  241 

"Was  scourged   by  a  strong  wind :    the   moonlight 

stream'd, 
Flooding  the  land:  and  on  the  dead  men  fell 
Its  frigid  splendour.     Then  stark  upright  rose 
Each  dead  man,  shouting  "  Uriel!  Uriel!  " 
And  in  the  windy  air  aloft  all  those 
Arm'd  corpses  waved  their  shatter'd  swords. 


VI. 

I  cried, 
"  What  are  ye?  and  what  name  is  it  you  bear? 
Corpses  or  ghosts  ?     Is  Life  with  Death  allied, 
To  breed  new  horrors  in  this  hideous  lair 
Of  Desolation  ?  "     And  they  all  replied 
**  Thine  is  our  name,  for  thine  our  Legions  were, 
And  thine  would  still  be,  if  thou  hadst  not  died. 
But  corpse  or  ghost  thou  art  thyself,  and  how 
Should  we  thy  death  survive  ?     It  is  not  well 
When  the  dead  do  not  know  the  dead,  nor  know 
The  date  of  their  own  death-day,  Uriel! 
Our  leader  bold  in  many  a  fight  wast  thou, 
And  we  fought  bravely.     But  thy  foes  and  ours 
Were  strongest.     And  the  strife  is  over  now. 
And  we  be  all  dead  men.     And  those  tall  towers 
We  built  are  fallen,  all  our  banners  torn, 
All  our  swords  broken,  all  our  strong  watch  fires 
Quencht,  and  in  death  have  we  been  left  forlorn 
Of  sepulture,  tho*  sons  of  princely  sires, 
Born  to  find  burial  fair  with  saints  and  kings, 
W^here,  over  trophied  tombs,  the  taper  shines 
On  tablets  rich  with  votive  offerings, 
And  priestly  perfumes  soothe  memorial  shrines. 
And  that  is  why  we  cannot  find  repose 
In  the  bare  quiet  of  unburied  death; 

722 


242  URIEL. 

But  ever,  when  at  night  the  wild  wind  blows 
Upon  the  barren  bosom  of  this  heath, 
Our  dead  flesh  tingles,  and  revives,  and  glows 
With  the  brief  passion  of  a  borrow'd  breath, 
Breathed  by  the  wind  :  and  on  as  the  wind  goes 
Go  with  the  wind  we  must,  where'er  that  be, 
A  lonesome  pilgrimage  along  the  night, 
Till  the  wind  falls  again,  and  with  it  we. 
Farewell  ! " 

VII. 

The  wild  wind  swept  them  from  my  sight, 
Even  as  they  spake,  and  all  the  heath  was  bare. 
Sighingly  the  wind  ceased.     The  night  was  still. 
The  dead  were  gone.     Only  the  moonlight  there 
Upon  the  empty  heath  lay  clear  and  chill 
Then  I  remember'd  long-forgotten  things. 
And  all  my  loss.     I  could  not  farther  fare 
Along  that  haunted  heath  ;  for  my  heart's  strings 
Were  aching,  gnaw'd  by  an  immense  despair. 
Flat  on  the  spot  where  last  they  stood  I  fell, 
And  clutch'd  the  wither'd  fern,  as  one  that  clings 
Fast  to  a  grave  where  all  he  loved  lies  dead, 
And  wept,  and  wept,  and  wept. 

"Rise,  Uriel," 
The  Voice  I  knew  still  call'd,   **  and  follow  me  !" 
But  I  could  only  weep,  so  vast  a  well 
Of  tears  within  me  flow'd.     At  last  I  said 
•'  What  heart  or  hope  have  I  to  follow  thee  ? 
Are  not  the  Legions  lost,  that  at  thy  call 
To  mine  own  overthrow  and  theirs  I  led  ? 
For  I  have  seen  again  their  faces  all. 
And  death  was  all  I  saw  there."     *'  Let  them  be  ! " 
The  Voice  replied,  "The  dead  shall  live  again 
When  we  have  reach'd  the  goal  whereto  I  go, 


URIEL.  243 

And  there  shalt  thou  rejoin  them.     Nor  till  then 
Can'st  thou  thyself  return  to  life,  for  thou 
Thyself  art  also  fall'n  among  the  slain. 
But  look  upon  me,  faithless  one,  and  know 
That  I  am  life  in  death,  and  joy  in  pain, 
And  light  in  darkness." 


vm. 

I  look'd  up,  and  saw, 
In  glory  that  was  not  of  mere  moonlight, 
(Glory  that  filled  me  with  a  great  glad  awe) 
Shining  above  me,  Her  my  soul  loves  well, 
Like  a  white  Angel.     And  along  the  night 
Her  voice  still  call'd  me,  *'  Uriel !   Uriel  !  " 
Again  I  follow'd.     And  it  seem'd  that  days, 
And  nights,  and  weeks,  and  months,  and  years  went 

And  on  we  went  by  never-ending  ways, 

Thro'  worlds   and   worlds.      And  ever  was   mine 

eye 
Fixt  on  that  beckoning  Form  with  faithful  gaze. 
And  seasons  little  cared  for — shine  or  shade. 
Or  heat  or  cold — pursued  us.     Many  a  Spring, 
And  many  a  Summer,  many  an  Autumn,  stay'd 
My  panting  path,  and  round  me  strove  to  fling 
Their  fervid  arms,  and  many  a  Winter  made 
His  frozen  fingers  meet  and  fiercely  cling 
In  lean  embrace  that  long  my  course  delay'd, 
And  Pain  and  Pleasure  both  essay'd  to  wring 
My  purpose  from  me.     But  still,  sore  afraid 
Lest  I  should  lose  my  Guide  by  tarrying. 
Forward  I  press'd  whenever  the  Voice  said 
"Uriel!  Uriel!  linger  not." 


244  URIEL, 


At  last 
We  reach'd  what  seem'd  the  end  of  a  dead  world. 
Wall'd  round  it  was  by  mountains  bare  and  vast, 
And  thro'  them  one  thin  perilous  pathway  curl'd 
Into  an  unknown  land  of  ice  and  snow. 
Where  nothing  lived,  nor  aught  was  left  to  freeze 
But  frost.     There  was  a  heap  of  bones  below; 
Above,  a  flock  of  vultures.     Under  these, 
Hard  by  a  stream  that  long  had  ceased  to  flow, 
A  miserable,  squalid,  lean  old  man. 
Nursing  a  broken  harp  upon  his  knees, 
Sat  in  the  frozen  pass.     His  eyes  were  wan. 
But  full  of  spiteful  looks      She  my  soul  loved, 
Fair  as  a  skyward  Seraph  on  the  wing, 
Before  me  up  that  perilous  pathway  moved, 
Calling  me  from  above,  and  beckoning. 
But  he  that  sat  before  the  pass  began 
To  twang  his  harp,  which  had  but  one  shrill  string, 
(Whose  notes  like  icy  needles  thro'  me  ran 
And  with  a  crack'd  and  creaking  voice  to  sing 
"  O  fool,  infatuated  fool,  forbear! 
For  yonder  is  the  Land  of  Ice  and  Snow, 
And  She  is  dead  that  beckoneth  to  thee  there. 
And  dead  forever  are  the  dead,  I  know." 

Whilst  thus  that  lean  old  man,  with  eyes  aglare, 
Sang  to  his  broken  harp's  one  string  below, 
The  vultures  scream'd  above  in  the  bleak  air 
"Dead  are  the  dead  forever!" 

X. 

*'  What  art  thou, 
Malignant  wretch  ?  "   I  cried.     The  old  man  said 


TRANSFORMATIONS.  245 

"  I  am  the  Ancient  Porter  of  this  Pass, 

Beyond  which  lies  the  Land  of  Ice  and  Snow. 

And  all  the  dwellers  in  that  land  are  dead, 

And  dead  forever  are  the  dead,  I  know. 

And  this,  my  harp— I  know  not  when,  alas  ! 

But  all  its  strings  were  broken  long  ago, 

Save  one,  which  time  makes  tough.     The  others 

were 
Of  sweeter  tone,  but  this  sounds  more  mtense. 
And,  for  my  name,  some  say  it  is  Despair, 
And  others  say  it  is  Experience." 

Thereat  he  laugh'd,  and  shook  his  sordid  rags, 
And  his  wan  eyes  with  sullen  malice  gleam' d. 
And  loud  again,  upon  the  icy  crags, 
In  that  bleak  air  above,  the  vultures  scream  d. 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 

(a  midsummer  night's  dream). 


I. 


"  Here  at  last  alone, 

You  and  I  together ! 

All  the  night  our  own. 

And  the  warm  June  weather ! 

Not  a  soul  in  sight ! 

What  we  will,  we  may. 

Nothing  is  by  night 

As  it  was  by  day. 

Look  around  you !     See, 


246  TRANSFORMA  TIONS. 

All  things  change  themselves. 
Blossom,  bower  and  tree 
Turn  to  Fays  and  Elves: 
Trivial  things  and  common 
Into  rare  things  rising. 
Why  should  man  and  woman 
Be  less  enterprising? 
Fashion's  formal  creatures 
We  till  now  have  been, 
With  prim-patterned  features 
And  a  borrow'd  mien, 
Now  the  mask  is  broken, 
Now  the  fetters  fall, 
Wishes  long  unspoken 
Now  are  all  in  all ! 
Wondrous  transformation 
Now,  for  you  and  me, 
Waits  our  invocation. 
Say,  what  shall  we  be  ?  " 

II. 
"What  you  will,"  said  She. 


III. 

"Look,  then,  and  listen!    For  you  must  be 

waiting, 
Behind  a  high  grating, 

The  sound  of  my  signal.     Along  the  wild  land 
I  have  gallop'd  full  speed  on  my  coal-black 

steed 
To  free  my  love  from  my  foeman's  hand. 
And  lol  in  the  moonlight  alert  I  stand 
Close  under  the  castle  wall. 


TkAiSfSFORMATlONB.  24^ 

Look  out,  I  am  here  1 
Leap  down,  nor  fear ! 
For  into  my  r.escuing  arms  you  fall, 
Safe  and  free.     They  are  round  you,  see ! 
One  saddle  must  serve  us,  so  cling  to  me  well. 
And  away,  and  away,  thro'  the  night  we  flee ! 
But  hark !     'Tis  the  clang  of  the  'larum  bell. 
Our  pursuers  awake.     For  dear  life's  sake 
Cling  to  me  closer  and  closer  still, 
And  speed,  speed,  my  coal-black  steed ! 
They  are  hurrying  after  us  over  the  hill, 
But  clear'd  is  the  river,  and  cross'd  is  the  heath. 
Deep  into  the  sheltering  woods  we  dart, 
And  O  what  a  ride!  for  I  feel  your  breath, 
And  how  hot  it  burns !  and  I  hear  your  heart. 
And  how  loud  it  beats !  as  I  laugh  *  We  part 
No  more,  come  life,  come  death  I '  " 


IV. 

*'No,  no," 

She  sighed,  "not  so! 

Too  fiercely  fleets  your  coal-black  steed, 

And  pleasure  faints  in  passion's  speed. 

And  the  bliss  that  lingers  the  best  must  be. 

Sighed  She. 


"Listen,  then,  and  look,  once  more! 
We  are  sailing  round  a  southern  island. 
Fragrant  breathes  the  dusky  shore, 
Folded  under  many  a  moonlit  highland. 
Fragrant  breathes  the  dusky  shore, 


24g  TkANSFOkMATiONS. 

And  where  dips  the  languid  oar 
Wavelets  dimple,  flash  and  darkle, 
Odours  wander,  fireflies  sparkle : 
Thro'  them  all  our  bark  is  gliding, 
Gliding  softly,  gliding  slowly: 
Not  a  cloud  their  sweetness  hiding, 
And  the  heavens  are  husht  and  holy: 
Midnight's  panting  pulse  uncertain 
Faintly  fans  the  heaving  curtain 
O'er  the  silken-pillow'd  seat 
Where  you  lie  with  slippered  feet, 
Tresses  loosed  and  zone  unbound  ; 
While,  my  ribbon'd  lute  unslinging, 
I,  your  troubadour,  beside  you, 
O'er  its  chords,  that  trembling  sound. 
Pour  the  song  my  soul  is  singing: 
List,  and  let  its  music  guide  you, 
Till  the  goal  of  dreams  is  found ! '"' 


VI. 

"Ah,  stay  so!  " 

She  murmured  low, 

*'  Song  and  stream  forever  flow ! 

And  if  this  be  dreaming,  never 

Let  me  wake,  but  dream  for  ever, 

Dreaming  thus,  if  dream  it  be!  " 

Then  He : 

VII. 

"  As  night's  magic  blends  together 
Moonbeams,  starbeams,  odours,  dews. 
In  a  hush  of  happy  weather, 


TRANSFORMA  TIONS,  249 

Earth  and  heaven  to  interfuse; 

So  my  song  draws  softly  down 

All  your  soul  into  my  own, 

Bounteous  gift  on  gift  bestowing: 

First  that  heaven,  your  face;  and  then 

Heaven's  divinest  stars,  those  eyes 

Under  dewy  lashes  glowing; 

Last,  those  lips,  whose  smile  caresses 

All  their  breath  beatifies; 

And  the  fragrance  o'er  me  flowing 

From  those  downward  shaken  tresses, 

Whose  delicious  wildernesses 

Hide  such  haunts  of  happy  sighs ! " 


VIII. 

"  Rise,  ah  rise!  " 

Faint  She  whispered.     *' Hold  me  fast ! 

Far  away  the  fixt  earth  flies, 

And  I  know  not  where  we  are. 

What  is  coming?     What  is  past? 

Bursting,  flashing,  fleeting,  see, 

Swiftly  star  succeeds  to  star 

Till  ....  in  what  new  world  we  are  ? 

**  Love's,"  said  He. 


"  Song  and  lute  the  spell  obeying, 
Cease  in  silence,  sweeter,  stronger, 
Than  song-singing  or  lute-playing  ; 
And,  entranced,  I  know  no  longer 

722-1 


250  TRANSFORMATIONS. 

Whither  are  my  senses  straying : 
But  I  feel  my  spirit  blending 
With  the  bliss  of  thine,  and  ending 
Tremulously  lost  in  thee  !  " 


"Hush!"  sighed  She, 

Lest  this  dream,  if  dream  alone 

And  no  more  than  dream  it  be, 

By  a  breath  should  be  undone. 

For  "ah,"  She  sighed, 

**  I  and  thou,  what  are  we  now?. 

And  He  replied, 

"  Thou  art  I,  and  I  am  thou, 

And  we  are  one  1  " 


THE  WALTER  SCOTT  PRESS,   NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE 


The  canterbury  POETS. 

Edited  by  WILLIAM  SHAKP. 
In  Shilling  Volumes,  Cloth,  Square  8vo. 


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Owen  Meredith's  Poems. 

Painter-Poets. 

Women-Poets. 

Love  Lyrics. 

American  Humor.  Vers© 

Scottish  Minor  Poets. 

Cavalier  Lyrists. 

German  Ballads. 

Songs  of  Beranger. 

Poems  by  Rodeu  Noel. 


London :  Walter  Scott,  Limited,  24  Warwick  Lane. 


SELECTED  THREE  VOLUME  SETS 

IN  NEW  BROCADE  BINDING. 
6s.  per  Set,  in  Shell  Case  to  match. 

Also  Boimd  in  Roan,  in  Shell  Case,  9^.  per  Set. 


O.    W.    HOLMES 
SERIES- 

Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Table. 

The  Professor  at  the  Break- 
fast Table. 

The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast 
Table. 


LANDOR    SERIES- 

Landor's   Imaginary    Conver- 
sations. 
Pentameron. 
Pericles  and  Aspasia. 


THREE    ENGLISH 
ESSAYISTS- 

Essays  of  Elia. 
Essays  of  Leigh  Hunt. 
Essays  of  William  Hazlitt. 


THREE  CLASSICAL 
MORALISTS- 

I^Ieditations    of    Marcus 

Aurelius. 
Teaching  of  Kpictetus. 
INIorals  of  Seneca. 


WALDEN    SERIES- 


Tlioreau's  Walden. 
Thoreau's  Week. 
Thoreau's  Essays. 


FAMOUS    LETTERS 

Letters  of  Burns. 
Letters  of  Byron. 
Letters  of  Chesterfield 


LOWELL    SERIES- 

My  Study  Windows. 
The  English  Poets. 
The  Biglow  Papers. 


London :  Walter  Scotx,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Row. 


NEW    TWO-VOLUME    PROSE    SETS. 


IN  NEW  BROCADE  BINDING, 
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MALORY'S     HISTORY     OF 

KING  ARTHUR. 
MALORY'S     MARVELLOUS 

ADVENTURES. 


ENGLISH  FAIRY  TALES. 
IRISH  FAIRY  TALES. 


HEINE'S  PROSE. 
HEINE'S    TRAVEL- 
SKETCHES. 


WHITMAN'S  SPECIMEN 

DAY^S. 
WHITMAN'S  DEMOCRATIC 

VISTAS. 


GREAT  PAINTERS. 
GREAT  COMPOSERS. 


SENECA'S  MORALS. 
ANNALS  OF  TACITUS. 


EMERSON'S  ESSAYS. 
SARTOR  RESARTUS. 


WHITE'S  SELBORNE.  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

MITFORD'S  OUR  VILLAGE     JANE  EYRE. 


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SELECTED    THREE-VOLUME    SETS 

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be  had  bound  in  Roan,  with  Roan  Case  to  match, 
9s.  per  Set. 


THE  FOLLOWING  SETS  CAN  BE  OBTAIN ED- 

POEMS    OF 

Wordsworth. 

Coleridge. 

Early  English 

Keats. 

Southey. 

Poetry. 

SheUey. 

Cowper. 

Chaucer. 

Longfellow. 

Whittier. 

Emerson. 

Border  Ballads. 
Jacobite  Songs. 
Ossian. 

Spenser. 

Horace. 

Greek  Anthology. 

Hogg. 

■ ■ 

Landor. 

Allan  Ramsay. 

Cavalier  Poets. 

Goldsmith. 
Moore. 

Scottish    Minor 

Love  Lyrics. 

Poets. 

Herrick. 

Irish  Minstrelsy. 

Shakespeare. 
Ben  Jonson. 
Marlowe. 

Christian  Year. 
Imitation  of 

Women  Poets. 
Children  of  Poets. 

Christ. 
Herbert. 

Sea  Music. 

Sonnets  of  this 

Century. 

■ ■ 

Praed. 

Sonnets  of  Europe. 

American  Humor- 

Hunt and  Hood. 

American  Sonnets. 

ous  Verse. 

Dobell. 

English     Humor- 



Heine. 

ous  Verse. 

Meredith. 

Goethe. 

Ballades  and 

Marston. 

Hugo, 

Rondeaus. 

Love  Letters. 

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BROCADE   BINDING,   IN 

SHELL   CASE   TO   MATCH,  4/-   PER   SET. 

ALSO  IN  ROAN,  WITH  ROAN  CASE  TO  MATCH,  6/-  PER  SET. 

THE  FOLLOWING  SETS  CAN  BE  OBTAINED- 

Imitation  of  Christ. 

Wordsworth. 

Cowper. 

Golden  Treasury. 

Longfellow. 

Pope. 

Milton  (Paradise 

Poe. 

Sea  Music. 

Lost). 

Whittier. 

Elfin  Music. 

Milton  (Paradise 

Regained). 

Heine. 

Sydney  Dobell. 
Dora  Greenwell. 

Scott  (Lady  of  the 

Goethe. 

Lake,  etc.). 

Scott  (Mannion, 

Spenser. 

Owen  Meredith. 

etc.). 

Chaucer. 

Hon.  Roden  Noel. 

Byron  (Don  Juan, 

etc.). 
Byron  (Miscel- 

Christian Year. 
Herbert. 

Ben  Jonson. 
Beaumont  and 

Vlpt.pbpr 

laneous). 

Keats. 

X'  XCLUlXd. 

Bums  (Songs). 

Shelley. 

Love  Letters. 

Burns  (Poems). 

Great  Odes. 

Love  Lyrics. 

Jacobite  Songs. 

Horace. 

Blake. 

Border  Ballads. 

Chatterton. 

Victor  Hugo. 

Allan  Ramsay. 
James  Hogg. 

Songs  of  Beran- 
ger. 

Australian  Bal- 
lads. 

Goldsmith. 

Painter  Poets. 

WUd  Life. 

Moore. 

Women  Poets. 

Hunt  and  Hood. 

Century  Sonnets. 

Emerson. 

Praed. 

Sonnets  of  Europe. 

Whitman. 

Landor. 

Cavalier  Poets. 
Herrick. 

Coleridge. 

Greek  Anthology. 

Southey. 

Humorous  Poems. 

Ossian. 

American  Humor- 

Marlowe. 

Minor  Scottish 

ous  Verse. 

Shakespeare. 

Poets. 

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THE   SCOTT   LIBRARY. 

Cloth,  uncut  edges,  gilt  top.      Price  i/6  per  volume. 


ALREADY  ISSUED. 


Romance  of  King  Arthur. 
Thoreau's  Walden. 
Thoreau's  Week. 
Thoreau's  Essays. 
Confessions  of  an  English 
Opium-Eater. 

Lander's  Conversations. 
Plutarch's  Lives. 
Browne's  Religio  Medici. 
Essays    and    Letters    of 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
Prose  Writings  of  Swift. 
My  Study  Windows. 

Lowell's    Essays    on    the 
English  Poets. 

The  Biglow  Papers. 

Great  English  Painters. 

Lord  Byron's  Letters. 

Essays  hy  Leigh  Hunt. 

Longfellow's  Prose. 


Great  Musical  Composers 

Marcus  Aurelius. 

Epictetus. 

Seneca's  Morals. 

Whitman's  Specimen 
Days  in  America. 

Whitman's  Democratic 

Vistas. 
White's  Natural  History. 
Captain  Singleton. 
Essays  by  Mazzini. 
Prose  Writings  of  Heine. 
Reynolds'  Discourses. 

The    Lover:     Papers    of 
Steele  and  Addison. 

Burns's  Letters. 

Volsunga  Saga. 

Sartor  Resartus. 

Writings  of  Emerson. 

Life  of  Lord  Herbert. 


THE  SCOTT  LIBRARY— continued. 


English  Prose. 

The  Pillars  of  Society. 

Fairy  and  Folk  Tales. 

Essays  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

Essays  of  Wm.  Hazlitt. 

Lander's  Pentameron,  &c 

Foe's  Tales  and  Essays 

Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Political  Orations. 

Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table. 

Poet  at  the  Breakfast- 
Table. 

Prcfessor  at  the  Break- 
fast-Table. 

Chesterfield's  Letters. 
Stories  from  Carleton. 
Jane  Ejrre. 

Elizabethan  England. 
Davis's  Writings. 
Spence's  Anecdotes 
More's  Utopia. 
Sadi's  Gulistan. 
English  Folk  Tales. 
Northern  Studies. 


Famous  Reviews. 
Aristotle's  Ethics. 
Lander's  Aspasia. 
Tacitus. 
Essays  of  Elia. 
Balzac. 

De  Musset's  Comedies. 
Darwin's  Coral-Reefs. 
Sheridan's  Plays. 
Cur  Village. 
Humphrey's  Clock,  ice. 
Tales  from  Wonderland 
Douglas  Jerrold. 
Rights  of  Woman. 
Athenian  Oracle. 
Essays  of  Sainte-Beuve. 
Selections  from  Plato. 
Heine's  Travel  Sketches. 
Maid  of  Orleans. 
Sydney  Smith. 
The  New  Spirit. 
Marvellous  Adventures. 
(From  the  Morte  d' Arthur.) 
Helps's  Essays. 


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IFlew  Series  of  Critical  aBio^rapbies. 

Edited  by  Eric  Robertson  and  Frank  T.  Marzials. 


GREAT    WEITERS. 

Cloth^  Gilt  Top,  Price  is.  6d. 
ALREADY   ISSUED— 
LIFE  OF  LONGFELLOW.    By  Prof.  E.  S.  Robertson. 
LIFE  OF  COLERIDGE.    By  Hall  Caine. 
LIFE  OF  DICKENS.    By  Frank  T.  Marzials. 
LIFE  OF  D.  G.  ROSSETTI.    By  Joseph  Knight. 
LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.    By  Col.  F.  Grant. 
LIFE  OF  DARWIN.     By  G.  T.  Bettany. 
CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.    By  Augustine  Birrell. 
LIFE  OF  CARLYLE.    By  Richard  Garnett,  LL.D. 
LIFE  OF  ADAM  SMITH.    By  R.  B.  Haldane,  M.P. 
LIFE  OF  KEATS.    By  W.  M.  Rossetti. 
LIFE  OF  SHELLEY.     By  William  Sharp. 
LIFE  OF  SMOLLETT.    By  David  Hannay. 
LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH.    By  Austin  Dobson. 
LIFE  OF  SCOTT.     By  Professor  Yonge. 
LIFE  OF  BURNS.     By  Professor  Blackie. 
LIFE  OF  VICTOR  HUGO.    By  Frank  T,  Marzials. 
LIFE  OF  EMERSON.    By  Richard  Garnett,  LL.D. 


LIFE  OP  GOETHE3.    By  James  Sime. 

LIFE  OP  CONGREVE.    By  Edmund  Gosse. 

LIFE  OF  BUNYAN.    By  Canon  Venables. 

LIFE  OP  CRABBE.    By  T.  E.  Kebbel,  M.A. 

LIFE  OF  HEINE.     By  William  Sharp. 

LIFE  OP  MILL.    By  W.  L.  Courtney. 

LIFE  OP  SCHILLER.    By  H.  W.  Nevinson. 

LIFE  OP  CAPTAIN  MARRYAT.    By  David  Hannay. 

LIFE  OP  LESSING.    By  T.  W.  Rolleston. 

LIFE  OF  MILTON.    By  Richard  Garnett. 

LIFE  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT.    By  Oscar  Browning. 

LIFE  OP  BALZAC.    By  Frederick  Wedmore. 

LIFE  OP  JANE  AUSTEN.    By  Goldwin  Smith, 

LIFE  OP  BROWNING.    By  William  Sharp. 

LIFE  OF  BYRON.    By  Hon.  Roden  Noel. 

LIFE  OP  HAWTHORNE.    By  Moncure  Conway. 

LIFE  OF  SCHOPENHAUER.    By  Professor  Wallace. 

LIFE  OP  SHERIDAN.    By  Lloyd  Sanders. 

LIFE  OP  THACKERAY.     By  Herman  Merivale  ana 

Frank  T.  Marzials. 
LIFE  OF  CERVANTES.    By  W.  E.  Watts. 
LIFE  OP  VOLTAIRE.     By  Francis  Espinasse. 
Bibliography  to  each,  by  J.  P.  Anderson,  British  Museum. 


LIBRARY  EDITION  OF   "GREAT  WRITERS." 

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The  contents  of  these  little  handbooks  are  so  arranged 
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Illustrated  Volumes  containing  between  300  and  400  pp. 

THE  CONTEMPORARY  SCIENCE  SERIES  wiU  bring 
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activity.  Social  progress,  it  is  felt,  must  be  guided  and 
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many  departments,  not  yet  open  to  the  English  reader.  In 
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environment— will  be  frankly  investigated  and  clearly  presented. 

First  Volumes  of  the  Series: — 

EVOLUTION  OF  SEX.    By  Prof.  Geddes  and  Thomson. 
ELECTRICITY  IN  MODERN  LIFE.    G.  W.  DE  TUNZELMANN. 
THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  ARYANS.     By  Dr.  Isaac  Taylor. 
PHYSIOGNOMY  AND  EXPRESSION.      By  P.  Manteoazza, 
EVOLUTION  AND  DISEASE.     By  J.  B.  SUTTON. 
THE  VILLAGE  COMMUNITY.      By  G.  L.  Gomme. 
THE  CRIMINAL.     By  Havelock  Ellis. 
SANITY  AND  INSANITY.    By  Dr.  C.  Mercier. 
HYPNOTISM.    By  Dr.  ALBERT  MOLL  (Berlin). 
MANUAL  TRAINING.    By  Dr.  Woodward  (St.  Louis,  Mo.i 
THE  SCIENCE  OF  FAIRY  TALES.     By  E.  S.  Hartland. 
PRIMITIVE  FOLK.     By  Elir  Reclus. 
THE  EVOLUTION  OF  MARRIAGE.     By  Letourneau. 
BACTERIA  AND  THEIR  PRODUCTS.    By  Dr.  WOODHEiJ). 
EDUCATION  AND  HEREDITY.    By  J.  M.  GUYAU. 
THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS.    By  Prof.  Lombroso. 
THE  GRAMMAR  OF  SCIENCE.     By  Prof.  KARL  PEARSON. 
PROPERTY:  ITS  ORIGIN.    By  Ch.  Letourneau. 
VOLCANOES,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.    By  Prof.  E.  Hull. 
PUBLIC  HEALTH  PROBLEMS.     By  Dr.  J.  F.  J.  Sykes. 


London  :  WALTER  SCOTT,  Limited,  24  Warwick  Lane. 


AUTHORISED    VERSION. 


Crown  8voy  Clothy  Price  6^. 

PEER  GYNT:  A  Dramatic  Poem. 

By    HENRIK   IBSEN. 

Translated  by  William  and  Charles  Archer. 

This  Translation^  though  unrhymedy  preserves  through- 
out the  various  rhythms  of  the  original. 


"To  English  readers  this  will  not  merely  be  a  new 
work  of  the  Norwegian  poet,  dramatist,  and  satirist,  but 
it  will  also  be  a  new  Ibsen.  .  .  .  Here  is  the  imaginative 
Ibsen,  indeed,  the  Ibsen  of  such  a  boisterous,  irresistible 
fertility  of  fancy  that  one  breathes  with  difficulty  as  one 
follows  him  on  his  headlong  course.  .  .  '  Peer  Gynt ' 
is  a  fantastical  satirical  drama  of  enormous  interest,  and 
the  present  translation  of  it  is  a  masterpiece  of  fluent, 
powerful,  graceful,  and  literal  rendering." — The  Daily 
Chronicle. 

London :  Walter  Scott,  Limited,  24  Warwick  Lane. 


Foolscap  SvOf  Cloth^  Price  3J.  6^/. 


THE   INSPECTOR-GENERAL 

(Or  "REVIZ6r.") 
A    RUSSIAN    COMEDY, 

By    NIKOLAI    VASILIYEVICH    GOGOL. 

Translated  from  the  oiiginal  Russian,  with  Introduction  and 
Notes,  by  A.  A.  Sykes,  B.A.,  Tiiuity  College^  Cambridge. 


Though  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  characteristic  of 
Gogol's  works,  and  well  known  on  the  Continent,  the 
present  is  the  first  translation  of  his  Revizdr^  or  Inspector- 
General,  which  has  appeared  in  English.  A  satire  on 
Russian  administrative  functionaries,  the  Revizdr  is  a 
comedy  marked  by  continuous  gaiety  and  invention,  full 
of  "situation,"  each  development  of  the  story  accentuating 
the  satire  and  emphasising  the  characterisation,  the  whole 
play  being  instinct  with  life  and  interest.  Every  here 
and  there  occurs  the  note  of  caprice,  of  naivete,  of  un- 
expected fancy,  characteristically  Russian.  The  present 
translation  will  be  found  to  be  admirably  fluent,  idiomatic, 
and  effective. 

liondon :  Walter  Scott,  Limited,  24  Warwick  Lane. 


IBSEN'S  PROSE  DRAMAS 

EDITED  BY  WILLIAM  ARCHER. 
In  Five  Voi.u:.[es. 


Crown  Svo,  C7o//i,  Price  3^  Gd.  Per  Volume. 

VOL.  I. 

"A  DOLL'S  HOUSE,"  "THE  LEAGUE  OF 
YOUTH,"  and  "THE  PILLARS  OF 
SOCIETY." 

VOL.  IL 

"GHOSTS,"  "AN  ENEMY  OF  THE 
PEOPLE,"  and  "THE  WILD  DUCK." 

VOL  III. 

"LADY  INGER  OF  OSTRAT,"  "THE 
VIKINGS  AT  HELGELAND,"  "THE 
PRETENDERS." 

VOL  IV. 

^EMPEROR  AND  GALILEAN."  With  an 
Introductory  Note  by  William  Arciier. 

VOL.   V. 

"ROSMERSHOLM"  ;  "TPIE  LADY  FROM 
THE  SEA";  "  HEDDA  GABLER."  Translated 
by  William  Archer. 

London :  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Row. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


0? 


6070 


o;l6 


DEC 


0  1975 


B    000  016  623    " 


